A Room with a View

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<F. iM. Forster

A ROOM

WITH
A VIEW

3*{ew 'Directions

THE NEW CLASSICS SERIES
Norfolk, Conn.

€ '. zM. Forster

A ROOM

WITH
A VIEW

$>(ew "Directions

THE NEW CLASSICS SERIES
Norfolk, Conn.

A

: Ti.-i... —.*»*•

731615

KumTriCTOBW in tbi ubitid statu or AUEBIOA

To
H. 0. M.

Contents
Part One

I. The Bertolini

II. In Santa Croce with No Baedeker

III. Music, Violets, and the Letter "S"

IV. Fourth Chapter

V. Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing

VI. The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend
Cuthhert Eager, Mr. Emerson, Mr.
George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish,
Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and Miss Lucy
Honeychurch Drive Out in Carriages to
See a View; Italians Drive Them

VII.

They Return

Part Two

in

VIII.

Mediaeval

129

IX.

Lucy as a Work of Art

150

X.

Cecil as a Humourist

170

XI.

In Mrs. Vyse's Well- Appointed Flat

183

XII.
XIII.

Twelfth Chapter

How Miss Bartlett's Boiler Was So Tin

191

How Lucy Faced the External Situation
Bravely

Contents

XV. The Disaster Within

XVI. Lying to George

XVII. Lying to Cecil

XVIII. Lying to Mr. Beehe, Mrs. Honeychurch,
Freddy, and the Servants

XIX. Lying to Mr. Emerson

XX. The End of the Middle Ages

A Room with
a View

Part One

Chapter I : The Bertolini

'*/" ■ "A HE Signora had no business to do it,"
1 said Miss Bartlett, "no business at all.
-M- She promised us south rooms with a view
dose together, instead of which here are north
rooms, looking into a courtyard, and a long way
apart. Oh, Lucy!"

"And a Cockney, besides I" said Lucy, who
bad been further saddened by the Signora's un-
lapected accent. "It might be London." She
■looked at the two rows of English people who were
■ fitting at the table; at the row of white bottles of
water and red bottles of wine that ran between
4c English people; at the portraits of the late
Queen and the late Poet Laureate that hung be-
hind thV English people, heavily framed; at the
Btice of the English church ( Rev. Cuthbert
Eager, M. A. Oxon.), that was the only other deco-
ation of the wall. "Charlotte, don't you feel,
Bo, that we might be in London? I can hardly
tlieve that all kinds of other things are just out-
;. I suppose it is one's being so tired."
This meat has surely been used for soup," said
Hiss Bartlett, laying down her fork.

want so to see the Arno. The rooms t\vc
-'3-

A Room with a View

Signora promised us in her letter would have looked
over the Arno. The Signora had no business tc
do it at all. Oh, it is a shame!"

"Any nook does for me," Miss Bartlett continued
"but it does seem hard that you shouldn't have a
view."

Lucy felt that she had been selfish.* "Charlotte,
you mustn't spoil me: of course, you must look
over the Arno, too. I meant that. The first
vacant room in the front — "

"You must have it," said Miss Bartlett, part
of whose travelling expenses were paid by Lucy's
mother — a piece of generosity to which she made,
many a tactful allusion.

"No, no. You must have it."

"I insist on it. Your mother would never for-
give me, Lucy." ,

"She would never forgive me." ,

The ladies' voices grew animated, and — if th^
sad truth be owned — a little peevish. They wet"'
tired, and under the guise of unselfishness the'
wrangled. Some of their neighbours interchange
glances, and one of them — one of the ill-bre«:
people whom one does meet abroad — leant fo>l
ward over the table and actually intruded into the*
argument. He said:

"I have a view, I have a view." ,

Miss Bartlett was startled. Generally at a per
sion people looked them over for a day or two bi
fore speaking, and often did not find out that the
-14-

The Bertolini

"do" till they had gone. She knew that the
intruder was ill-bred, even before she glanced at
him. He was an old man, of heavy build, with a
fair, shaven face and large eyes. There was some-
thing childish in those eyes, though it was not the
childishness of senility. What exactly it was Miss
Bartlett did not stop to consider, for her glance
passed on to his clothes. These did not attract her.
He was probably trying to become acquainted with
them before they got into the swim. So she assumed
a dazed expression when he spoke to her, and then
said: "A view? Oh, a view! How delightful a
view is!"

"This is my son," said the old man; "his name's
3corge. He has a view too."

"Ah," said Miss Bartlett, repressing Lucy, who
was about to speak.

"What I mean," he continued, "is that you can
lave our rooms, and we'll have yours. We'll
change."

The better class of tourist was shocked at this,
and sympathized with the new-comers. Miss Bart-
ett, in reply, opened her mouth as little as possible,
and said :

"Thank you very much indeed; that is out of the
question."

"Why?" said the old man, with both fists on the
table.

"Because it is quite out of the question, thank

A Room with a View

"You see, we don't like to take — " began Lucy.

Her cousin again repressed her.

"But why?" he persisted. "Women like look-
ing at a view; men don't." And he thumped with
his fists like a naughty child, and turned to his son,
saying, "George, persuade them I"

"It's so obvious they should have the rooms,"
said the son. "There's nothing else to say."

He did not look at the ladies as he spoke, but
his voice was perplexed and sorrowful. Lucy, too,
was perplexed; but she saw that they were in for
what is known as "quite a scene," and she had an
odd feeling that whenever these ill-bred tourists
spoke the contest widened and deepened till it dealt,
not with rooms and views, but with — well, with
something quite different, whose existence she had
not realized before. Now the old man attacked.
Miss Bartlett almost violently: Why should she :
not change? What possible objection had she? 1
Thev would clear out in half an hour.

Miss Bartlett, though skilled in the delicacies oi
conversation, was powerless m the presence of bru-
tality. It was impossible to snub any one so gross-
Her face reddened with displeasure. She looked
around as much as to say, "Are you all like this?*
And two little old ladies, who were sitting further uf
the table, with shawls hanging over the backs of th<
chairs, looked back, clearly indicating "We are not '
wc are genteel." '

"Eat your dinner, dear," she said to Lucy, and beS

The Bertolini

gan to toy again with the meat that she had once cen-
sured.

Lucy mumbled that those seemed very odd peo-
ple opposite.

"Eat your dinner, dear. This pension is a failure.
To-morrow we will make a change."

Hardly had she announced this fell decision when
ibe reversed it. The curtains at the end of the room
parted, and revealed a clergyman, stout but attrac-
tive, who hurried forward to take his place at the
table, cheerfully apologizing for his lateness. Lucy,
who had not yet acquired decency, at once rose to
Iw feet, exclaiming: "Oh, ohl Why, it's Mr.
Eeebc I Oh, how perfectly lovely ! Oh, Charlotte,
k must stop now, however bad the rooms are.
Mi!"
Miss Bartlett said, with more restraint:
"How do you do, Mr. Beebe? I expect that you
tae forgotten us: Miss Bartlett and Miss Honey-
hnrch, who were at Tunbridge Wells when you
Mped the Vicar of St. Peter's that very cold
Eister."

The clergyman, who had the air of one on a holi-
by, did not remember the ladtes quite as clearly as
Sty remembered him. But he came forward pleas-
Btly enough and accepted the chair into which he
is beckoned by Lucy.

"I am so glad to see you," said the girl, who was
■ a state of spiritual starvation, and would have
'ten glad to see the waiter if her cousin had \>tt-
-17-

A Room with a View

mitted it- "Just fancy how small the world is.
Summer Street, too, makes it so specially funny."

"Miss Honeychurch lives in the parish of Summer
Street," said Miss Bartlett, filling up the gap, "and
she happened to tell me in the course of conversa-
tion that you have just accepted the living — "

"Yes, I heard from mother so last week. She
didn't know that I knew"-yea at Tunbridge Wells;
but I wrote back at once, and I said: 'Mr. Beebe

"Quite right," said the clergyman. "I move into
the Rectory at Summer Street next June. I am
lucky to be appointed to such a charming neighbour-
hood."

"Oh, how glad I am! The name of our house is
Windy Corner."

Mr. Beebe bowed.

"There is mother and me generally, and rny
brother, though it's not often we get him to ch —
The church is rather far off, I mean."

"Lucy, dearest, let Mr. Beebe eat his dinner.'

"I am eating It, thank you, and enjoying it."

He preferred to talk to Lucy, whose playing he
remembered, rather than to Miss Bartlett, who
probably remembered his sermons. He asked the
girl whether she knew F loren ce well, and w*as in-
formed at some length that she had never been there
before. It is delightful to advise a newcomer, and
he was first in the field.

"Don't neglect the country round," his advice con.
-i 8-

The Bertolini

eluded. "The first fine afternoon drive up
Fiesole, and round by Settignano, or something oi
that sort."

"No!" cried a voice from the top of the table.
"Mr. Beebe, you are wrong. The first fine aftei
noon your ladies must go to Prato."

"That lady looks so clever," whispered Miss Bart-
: lett to her cousin. "We are in luck."

And, indeed, a perfect torrent of information
burst on them. People told them what to see, when
to see it, how to stop the electric trams, how to get
rid of the beggars, how much to give for a vellum
blotter, how much the place would grow upon them.
The Pension Bertolini had decided, almost enthusi-
astically, that they would do. Whichever way they
looked, kind ladies smiled and shouted at them.
And above all rose the voice of the clever lady, cry-
ing: "Prato! They must go to Prato. That
place is too sweetly squalid for words. I love it;
I revel in shaking off the trammels of respectability,
as you know."

The young man named George glanced at the
clever lady, and then returned moodily to his plate.
Obviously he and his father did not do. Lucy, in
the midst of her success, found time to wish they did.
It gave her no extra pleasure that any one should
be left in the cold; and when she rose to go,
I she turned back and gave the two outsiders a nerv-
ous little bow.

The father did not see it; the son acknovAe&^A
-19-

1

A Room with a View

it, not by another bow, but by raising his eyebrows
and smiling; he seemed to be smiling across some-
thing.

She hastened after her cousin, who had already
disappeared through the curtains — curtains which t
smote one in the face, and seemed heavy with more :
than cloth. Beyond them stood the unreliable
Signora, bowing good-evening to her guests, and sup-
ported by 'Enery, her little boy, and Victorier, her
daughter. It made a curious little scene, this
attempt of the Cockney to convey the grace and'
geniality of the South. And even more curious :
was the drawing-room, which attempted to rival the
solid comfort of a Bloomsbury boarding-house.
Was this really Italy?

Miss Bartlett was already seated on a tightly,
stuffed arm-chair, which had the colour and the;,
contours of a tomato. She was talking to Mr.J
Beebe, and as she spoke, her long narrow head-
drove backwards and forwards, slowly, regularly, aa t
though she were demolishing some invisible ob-:
stacle. "We are most grateful to you," she waa|
saying. "The first evening means so much. When*
you arrived we were in for a peculiarly mauvaisi
quart d'heure."

He expressed his regret. (

"Do you, by any chance, know the name of anj
old man who sat opposite us at dinner?"

"Emerson."

"Is he a friend of yours ?"
-20-

The Bertolini

"Wc arc friendly — as one is in pensions."
"Then I will say no more."
He pressed her very slightly, and she said more.
"I am, as it were," she concluded, "the chaperon
(if my young cousin, Lucy, and it would be a serious
thing if I put her under an obligation to people of
whom we know nothing. His manner was some-
what unfortunate. I hope I acted for the best."

'You acted very naturally," said he. He.seemed
thoughtful, and after a few moments added: "All
the same, I don't think much harm would have come
wf accepting."

'No harm, of course. But we could not be under
ft obligation."
"He is rather a peculiar man." Again he hesi-
Ued, and then said gently : "I think he would not
ike advantage of your acceptance, nor expect you
—J show gratitude. He has the merit — if it is one
-of saying exactly what he means. He has rooms
does not value, and he thinks you would value
bn. He no more thought of putting you under

■ obligation than he thought of being polite. It is ,
I difficult — at least, I find it difficult — to under-
bid people who speak the truth." i

Ucy was pleased, and said: "I was hoping that
tiras nice; I do so always hope that people will

■ nice."
"I think he is; nice-and tiresome. I differ from

on on almost every pouTfTjf any importance, aud
o,l expect — I may say I hope — you m\\ &%et.

—21-

Bl
de
ur

A Room with a View

But his is a type one disagrees with rather than
deplores. When he first came here he not unnat-
urally put people's backs up. He has no tact and
no manners — I don't mean by that that he has bad
manners — and he will not keep his opinions to him-
self. We nearly complained about him to our
depressing Signora, but I am glad to say we
thought better of it."

"Am I to conclude," said Miss Bartlett, "that
he is a Socialist?"

Mr. Beebe accepted the convenient word, not
without a slight twitching of the lips.

"And presumably he has brought up his son to
be a Socialist, too?"

"I hardly know George, for he hasn't learnt to
talk yet. He seems a nice creature, and 1 think
he has brains. Of course, he has all his father's
mannerisms, and it is quite possible that he, too, J
may be a Socialist."

"Oh, you relieve me," said Miss Bartlett. "Som
you think I ought to have accepted their offer?
You feel I have been narrow- minded and sus-
picious?"

"Not at all," he answered; "I never suggested
that."

"But ought I not to apologize, at all events, for
my apparent rudeness?"

He replied, with some irritation, that it woulc
be quite unnecessary, and got up from his seat t<
go to the smoking-room.

-22-

The Bertolini

"Was I a bore?" said Miss Bartlett, as soon as

he had disappeared. "Why didn't you talk, Lucy ?

He prefers young people, I'm sure. I do hope

I haven't monopolized him. I hoped you would

We him all the evening, as well as all dinner-time."
He is nice," exclaimed Lucy. "Just what I

remember. He seems to sec good in every one.

No one would take hinrftSr a clergyman."
'My dear Lucia — " ""
"Well, you know what I mean. And you know

tow clergymen generally laugh ; Mr. Beebe laughs

jut like an ordinary man."
'Funny girl ! How you do remind me of your

lother. I wonder if she will approve of Mr.

We."

"I'm sure she will; and so will Freddy."
"I think every one at Windy Corner will ap4
it is the fashionable world. I am used to}
mbridge Wells, where we are all hopelessly bej
" the times."
"Yes," said Lucy despondently.
There was a haze of disapproval in the air, but
letber the disapproval was of herself, or of Mr.
(be, or of the fashionable world at Windy
•mcr, or of the narrow world at Tunbridge Wells,
t could not determine. She tried to locate it,
as usual she blundered. Miss Bartlett sedu-
lity denied disapproving of any one, and added:
im afraid you are finding me a very depressing
npanion."

-*3-

A Room with a View

And the girl again thought: "I must have bei
selfish or unkind; I must be more careful. It
so dreadful for Charlotte, being poor."

Fortunately one of the litttfr-»ld ladies, who f<
some time had been smiling very benignly, no
approached and asked if she might be allowed i
sit where Mr. Beebe had sat. Permission grante<
she began to chatter gently about Italy, the plunj
it had been to come there, the gratifying succe
of the plunge, the improvement in her sister
health, the necessity of closing the bed-room wii
dows at night, and of thoroughly emptying ti
water-bottles in the morning. She handled her sul
jects agreeably, and they were, perhaps, more wo
thy qi attention than the high discourse upon Guel.
and Ghibellines which was proceeding tempes
uously at the other end of the room. It was
real catastrophe, not a mere episode, that evenir
of hers at Venice, when she had found in her bet
room something that is one worse than a flffi
though one better than something else. $

"But here you are as safe as in EnglanE
Signora Bertolini is so English." \,

"Yet our rooms smell," said poor Lucy. "V
dread going to bed." u

"Ah, then you look into the court." She sigh<T
"If only Mr. Emerson was more tactful I We w«i
so sorry for you at dinner?* 1

"I think he was meaning to be kind." >

"Undoubtedly he was," said Miss Bartl^
-24- ■ i

The Bertolini

Mr. Beebc has just been scolding mc for my sus-
Hcious nature. Of course, I was holding back on
cousin's account."

'Of course," said the little old lady; and they
murmured that one could not be too careful with
young girl.

Lucy tried to look demure, but could not help

feeling a great fool. No one was careful with her

it home; or, at all events, she had not noticed it.

"About old Mr. Emerson — I hardly know. No,

he is not tactful; yet, have you ever noticed that

there are people who do things which are most

Indelicate, and yet at the same time — h eaut j fu l?"

"Beautiful?" said Miss Bartlett, puzzled at the

'ord. "Are not beautji^afld delicacy the same?"i

"So one would have thought," said the other

elplessly. "But things are so difficult, I some-

mes think."

She proceeded no further into things, for Mr.
Beebe reappeared, looking extremely pleasant.

Miss Bartlett," he cried, "it's all right about
the rooms. I'm so glad. Mr. Emerson was talk-
about it in the smoking-room, and knowing
rliat I did, I encouraged him to make the offer
gain. He has let me come and ask you. He
'Ould be so pleased."

"Oh, Charlotte," cried Lucy to her cousin, "we
Bust have the rooms now. The old man is just
s nice and kind as he can be."
ss Bartlett was silent.

A Room with a View

"I fear," said Mr. Beebe, after a pause, "that
have been officious. I must apologize for my ii
terfcrence."

Gravely displeased, he turned to go. Not ti
then did Miss Bartlett reply: "My own wishe
dearest Lucy, are unimportant in comparision wit
yours. It would be hard indeed if I stopped yo
doing as you liked at Florence, when I am oral
here through your kindness. If you wish me t
turn these gentlemen out of their rooms, I wii
do it. Would you then, Mr. Beebe, kindly td
Mr. Emerson that I accept his kind oiler, and the
conduct him to me, in order that I may thank hit
personally?"

She raised her voice as she spoke; it was hearj
all over the drawing-room, and silenced the Guell
and the Ghibellincs. The clergyman, inwardl
cursing the female sex, bowed, and departed wia
her message. '

"Remember, Lucy, I alone am implicated i
this. I do not wish the acceptance to come fro^
you. Grant me that, at all events."

Mr. Beebe was back, saying rather nervousli

"Mr. Emerson is engaged, but here is his sfl_
instead." v

The young man gazed down on rile three ladic
who felt seated on the floor, so low were the
chairs.

"My father," he said, "is in his bath, so yc

rannot thank him personally. But any messafe

-»6-

The Bertolini

given by you to me will be given by me to him as

toon as he comes out."
Miss Bartlett was unequal to the bath. All her

barbed civilities came forth wrong end first. Young

Mr. Emerson scored a notable triumph to the de-N

light of Mr. Beebe and to the secret delight of '

Lory.
"Poor young man!" said Miss Bartlett, as soon
he had gone. "How angry he is with his father

iiout the rooms I It is all he can do to keep
lite."

"In half an hour or so your rooms will be
idy," said Mr. Beebe. Then looking rather

thoughtfully at the two cousins, he retired to
own rooms, to write up his philosophic di-

"Oh, dear I" breathed the little old lady, and
iddered as if all the winds of heaven had entered
it apartment. "Gentlemen sometimes do not
ealize — " Her voice faded away, but Miss Bart-
seemed to understand and a conversation de-
doped, in which gentlemen who did not thoroughly
talize played a principal part. Lucy, not realizing
iAer, was reduced to literature. Taking upBaed-
" r's Handbook to Norther n Italy, she committed
memory the most important dates of Florentine
tory. For she was determined to enjoy her-
lf on the morrow. Thus the half-hour crept
itably away, and at last Miss Bartlett rose
a sigh, and said:

-27-

A Room with a View

"I think one might venture now. No, Lucy, d
not stir. I will superintend the move."

"How you do do everything," said Lucy.

"Naturally, dear. It is my affair."

"But I would like to help you."

"No, dear."

Charlotte's energy I And her unselfishness

She had been thus all her life, but really, on thi

Italian tour, she was surpassing herself. So Luc

felt, or strove to feel. And yet — there was

. rebellious spirit in her which wondered whethq

i the acceptance might not have been less delicaf

i and more beautiful. At all events, she enter*

her own room without any feeling of joy.

"I want to explain," said Miss Bartlett, "wi|
it is that I have taken the largest room. NaW
ally, of course, I should have given it to you; but
happen to know that it belongs to the young ms*
and I was sure your mother would nothkeit

Lucy was bewildered. "

"If you are to accept a favour it is more suitab 1
you should be under an obligation to his fath*
than to him. I am a woman of the world, in r
small way, and I know where things lead to. Ho''
ever, Mr. Beebe is a guarantee of a sort that thfc
will not presume on this." s

"Mother wouldn't mind I'm sure," said Li***
but again had the sense of larger and unsuspecf*
issues. *

Miss Bartlett only sighed, and enveloped her
-28-

The Bertolini

rotecting embrace as she wished her good-night.
•ave Lucy the sensation of a fog, and when she
ched her own room she opened the window and
athed the clean night air, thinking of the kind

man who had enabled her to sec the , lights
icin g in the Ar no and the cypresses o f San Min-
), and the foot-hills of the Apennines, black
linst the rising moo's

Wiss Bartlett, in her room, fastened the window-
tters and locked the door, and then made a '
r of the apartment to see where the cupboards

and whether there were any oubliettes or secret
■ances. It was then that she saw,, pinned up
r the washstand, a sheet of paper on which was
iwled an en ormo us note of interrogation. Noth-
more.

What does it mean?" she thought, and she
mined it carefully by the light of a candle.
amngless at first, it gradually became menacing,
loxious, portentous with evil. She was seized
b an impulse to destroy it, but fortunately re-
mbered that she had no right to do so, since
must be the property of young Mr. Emerson.

she unpinned it carefully, and put it between
* pieces of blotting-paper to keep it clean for
*■ Then she completed her inspection of the
*i, sighed heavily according to her habit, and
it to bed.

Chapter II: In Santa Croce with N<
Baedeker

IT was pleasant to wake up in Florence, to opei
the eyes upon a bright bare room, with a floo
of red tiles which look clean though the
are not; with a painted ceiling whereon pink grif
tins and blue amorini sport in a forest of yelloi
violins and bassoons. It was pleasant, too, to
fling wide the windows, pinching the fingers in un
familiar fastenings, to lean out into sunshine wit!
beautiful hills and trees and marble churches oppd
site, and close below, the Arno, gurgling again!
the embankment of the road.

Over the river men were at work with spadd
and sieves on the sandy foreshore, and on the riv^
was a boat, also diligently employed for some myi
terious end. An electric tram came rushing undci
neath the window. No one was inside it, exccp
one tourist; but its platforms were overflowing wil^
Italians, who preferred to stand. Children trie^
to hang on behind, and the conductor, with no m%
ice, spat in their faces to make them let go. The
soldiers appeared — good-looking, undersized m^
— wearing each a knapsack covered with mangy fii|
and a great-coat which had been cut for some larg»
soldier. Beside them walked officers, looking fo<*
-30-

In Santa Croce with No Baedeker

iih and fierce, and before them went little boys,
turning somersaults in time with the band. The
tramcar became entangled in their ranks, and
moved on painfully, like a caterpillar in a swarm
of ants. One of the little boys fell down, and some
white bullocks came out of an archway. Indeed,
if it had not been for the good advice of an old
who was selling button-hooks, the road might
j «TCr have got clear.

Over such trivialities as these many a valuable
koor may slip away, and the traveller who has /
le to Italy to study the tactile values of Giotto, /
the corruption of the Papacy, may return re-
imbering nothing but the blue sky and the men ,
I women who live under it. So it was as well ',
t Miss Bartlett should tap and come in, and
'big commented on Lucy's leaving the door
locked, and on her leaning out of the window
fore she was fully dressed, should urge her to
Ken herself, or the best of the day would be
By the time Lucy was ready her cousin had
her breakfast, and was listening to the clever
If among the crumbs.

A conversation then ensued, on not unfamiliar
it Miss Bartlett was, after all, a wee bit tired,
I thought they had better spend the morning
ting in; unless Lucy would at all like to go out?
tj would rather like to go out, as it was her
m (day in Florence, but, of course, she could go
Miss Bartlett could not allow this. OS
-3*~

A Room with a View

course she would accompany Lucy everywhere. O
certainly not; Lucy would stop with her cousi
Oh, no I that would never do. Oh, yes!

At this point the clever lady broke in.

"If it is Mrs. Grundy who is troubling you,
do assure you that you can neglect the good perso
Being English, Miss Honeychurch will be perfect
safe. Italians understand. A dear friend of min
Contessa Baroncelli, has two daughters, and whi
she cannot send a maid to school with them, si
lets them go in sailor-hats instead. Every «
takes them for English, you see, especially if the
hair is strained tightly behind."

Miss Bartlett was unconvinced by the safety i
Contessa Baroncelli's daughters. She was detfl
mined to take Lucy herself, her head not being |
very bad. The clever lady then said that she wf
going to spend a long morning in Santa Croce, at
if Lucy would come too, she would be delighted. ■

"I will take you by a dear dirty back way, Mi
Honeychurch, and if you bring me luck, we shf
have an adventure."

Lucy said that this was most kind, and at off
opened the Baedeker, to see where Santa Crtf
was. ^ f

"Tut, tut! Miss Lucy! I hope we shall so*
emancipate you from Baedeker. He does fa
touch the surface of things. As to the true It*
— he does not even dream of it. The true It)
is only to be found by patient observation."

-32- - - i

In Santa Croce with No Baedeker

This sounded very interesting, and Lucy hurried
over her breakfast, and started with her new friend
in high spirits.' Italy was coming at last. The
Cockney Signora and her works had vanished like
a bad dream.

Miss Lavish — for that was the clever lady's
name — turned to the right along the sunny Lung'
Arno. How delightfully warm I But a wind down
the side streets cut like a knife, didn't it? Ponte
iille Grazie — particularly interesting, mentioned by
Dante. San Miniato — beautiful as well as inter-
wing; the crucifix that kissed a murderer — Miss
Horieychurch would remember the story. The men
m the river were fishing. (Untrue; but then, so
a most information.) Then Miss Lavish darted
■oder the archway of the white bullocks, and she
topped, and she cried:

"A smell I a true Florentine smell I Every city,
ttme teach you, has its own smell."
"Is it a very nice smell?" said Lucy, who had
therited from her mother a distaste to dirt.
"One doesn't come to Italy for niceness," was
It retort; "one comes for life. Buon giorno!
hon giorno!" bowing right and left. "Look at
bit adorable wine-cart!' How the driver stares
tus, dear, simple soul!"

So Miss Lavish proceeded through the streets of

city of Florence, short, fidgety, and playful as

^kitten, though without a kitten's grace. It was

■ treat for the girl to be with any one so <&evtf

I -33-

A Room with a View

and so cheerful ; and a blue military cloak, such ai
an Italian officer wears, only increased the sense oJ
festivity.

"Buon giornol Take the word of an old wo
man, Miss Lucy: you will never repent of a littlf
civility to your inferiors. Thai is the true democ-
racy. Though I am a real Radical as well. There,
now you're shocked."

"Indeed, I'm not!" exclaimed Lucy. "We art
Radicals, too, out and out. My father alwayi
voted for Mr. Gladstone, until he was so dreadful
about Ireland."

"I see, I see. And now you have gone over to.
the enemy."

"Oh, please — I If my father was alive, I aoj
sure he would vote Radical again now that Ireland
is all right. And as it is, the glass over our front-
door was broken last election, and Freddy is surf
it was the Tories; but mother says nonsense, m
tramp." £

"Shameful! A manufacturing district, I sujj*
pose ?" j-

"No — in the Surrey hills. About five miles fro£*
Dorking, looking over the Weald." i"

Miss Lavish seemed interested, and slackened
her trot. % ~=

"What a delightful part; I know it so well, j
is full of the very nicest people. Do you know Si"
Harry Otway — a Radical if ever there was?" B

"Very well indeed." t

-34-

In Santa Croce with No Baedeker

"And old Mrs. Butterworth the philanthropist?"
"Why, she rent* a field of usl How funny 1"
Miss Lavish looked at the narrow ribbon of sky,
and murmured:
"Oh, you have property in Surrey?"
"Hardly any," said Lucy, fearful of being
thought a snob. "Only thirty acres — just the gar-
den, all downhill, and some fields."

Miss Lavish was not disgusted, and said it was
just the size of her aunt's Suffolk estate. Italy
receded. They tried to remember the last name
of Lady Louisa some one, who had taken a house
star Summer Street the other year, but she had
ttt liked it, which was odd of her. And just as
Miss Lavish had got the name, she broke off and
odaimed:

"Bless us! Bless us and save usl We've lost
At way."

Certainly they had seemed a long time in reaching
Santa Croce, the tower of which had been plainly
•aiMe from the landing window. But Miss Lavish
ud said so much about knowing her Florence by
kirt, that Lucy had followed her with no mis-
prings.
"Lost! lostl My dear Miss Lucy, during our
ditical diatribes we have taken a wrong turning.
W those horrid Conservatives would jeer at. us I
ttit are we to do? -Two lone females in an
■laown town. Now, this is what / call
Wore."

-35-

A Room with a View

Lucy, who wanted to see Santa Croce, suggested,
as a possible solution, that they should ask the way
there.

"Oh, but that is the word of a craven I And
no, you are not, not, not to look at your Baedeker.
Give it to me; I shan't let you carry it. We will
simply drift."

' Accordingly they drifted through a- series of
those grey-brown streets, neither commodious nor
picturesque, in which the eastern quarter of the city
abounds. Lucy soon lost interest in the discontent
of Lady Louisa, and became discontented herself.
For one ravishing moment Italy appeared.
She stood in the Square of the Annunziata and
saw in the living terra-cotta those divine babies
whom no cheap reproduction can ever stale. There
they stood, with their shining limbs bursting from
the garments of charity, and their strong white arms
extended against circlets of heaven. Lucy thought
she had never seen anything more beautiful; but
Miss Lavish, with a shriek of dismay, dragged her
forward, declaring that they were out of their path
now by at least a mile.

The hour was approaching at which the continen-
tal breakfast begins, or rather ceases, to tell, and the
ladies bought some hot chestnut paste out of a
little shop, because it looked so typical. It tasted
partly of the paper in which it was wrapped, partly
of hair oil, partly of the great unknown. But it
gave them strength to drift into another Piazza*

-36-

In Santa Croce with No Baedeker

forge and dusty, on the farther side of which rose a
Mack-and-white facade of surpassing ugliness. Miss
Lavish spoke to it dramatically. It was Santa
Croce. The adventure was over,

"Stop a minute; let those two people go on, or
I shall have to speak to them. I do detest con-
ventional intercourse. Nasty! they arc going into
the church, too. Oh, the Britisher abroad I"

"We sat opposite them at dinner last night.
They have given us their rooms. They were so
wry hind."

"Look at their figures!" laughed Miss Lavish.
"They walk through my Italy like a pair of cows-
It's very naughty of me, but I would like to set an ex-
amination paper at Dover, and turn back every
tourist who couldn't pass it."

"What would you ask us?"

Miss Lavish laid her hand pleasantly on Lucy's
inn, as if to suggest that she, at alt events, would
get full marks. In this exalted mood they reached
Ac steps of the great church, and were about to
enter it when Miss Lavish stopped, squeaked, flung
up her arms, and cried:

"There goes my local-colour box I I must have
iword with him!"

And in a moment she was away over the Piazza,
ker military cloak flapping in the wind; nor did she
dacken speed till she caught up an old man with
white whiskers, and nipped him playfully upon the
»rm.

-37-

A Room with a View

Lucy waited for nearly ten minutes. Then sht
began to get tired. The beggars worried her, tin
dust blew in her eyes, and she remembered that i
young girl ought not to loiter in public places. Sh.
descended slowly into the Piazza with the intentioi
of rejoining Miss Lavish, who was really alrnos
too original. But at that moment Miss Lavisl
and her local-colour box moved also, and disap
peared down a side street, both gesticulating largely

Tears of indignation came to Lucy's eyes —
partly because Miss Lavish had jilted her, parth
because she had taken her Baedeker. How coula
she find her way home? How could she find he
way about in Santa Croce? Her first morning wa.
ruined, and she might never be in Florence again
A few minutes ago she had been all high spirits
talking as a woman of culture, and half persuading
herself that she was full of originality. Now sh
entered the church depressed and humiliated, no*
even able to remember whether it was built by th
Franciscans or the Dominicans.

Of course, it must be a wonderful building. B«
how like a barn ! And how very cold ! Of course
it contained frescoes by Giotto, in the presence o
whose tactile values she was capable of feeling wha
was proper. But who was to tell her which thej
were? She walked about disdainfully, unwilling
to be enthusiastic over monuments of uncertaie
authorship or date. There was no one even to tell
her which, of all the sepulchral slabs that paved the
-3«-

In Santa Croce with No Baedeker

nave and transepts, was the one that was really
beautiful, the one that had been most praised by
Mr. Ruskin.

Then the pernicious charm of Italy worked on
her, and, instead of acquiring information, she be-
gan to be happy. She puzzled out the Italian
notices — the notices that forbade people to intro-
duce dogs into the church — the notice that prayed
people, in the interest of health and out of respect
to the sacred edifice in which they found them-
selves, not to spit. She watched the tourists; their
noses were as red as their Baedekers, so cold was
Santa Croce. She beheld the horrible fate that
overtook three Papists — two he-babies and a she-
baby — who began their career by sousing each other
with the Holy Water, and then proceeded to the
Machiavelli memorial, dripping but hallowed. Ad-
vancing towards it very slowly and from immense
distances, they touched the stone with their fingers,
with their handkerchiefs, with their heads, and then
retreated. What could this mean? They did it
again and again. Then Lucy realized that they
had mistaken Machiavelli for some saint, hoping
acquire virtue. Punishment followed quickly.
The smallest he-baby stumbled over one of the sep-
ulchral slabs so much admired by Mr. Ruskin, and
entangled his feet in the features of a recumbent
bishop. Protestant as she was, Lucy darted for-
ward. She was too late. He fell heavily upon the
'felate's upturned toes,

~39-

I

A Room with a View

"Hateful bishop I" exclaimed the voice of old Mr.
Emerson, who had darted forward also. "Hard

. in life, hard in death. Go out into the sunshine,
little boy, and kiss your hand to the sun, for that

1 is where you ought to be. Intolerable bishop I"

The child screamed frantically at these words,

and at these dreadful people who picked him up,

dusted him, rubbed his bruises, and told him not

to be superstitious.

"Look at him!" said Mr. Emerson to Lucy*
"Here's a mess: a baby hurt, cold, and frightened!
But what else can you expect from a church?"

The child's legs had become as melting wax.
Each time that old Mr. Emerson and Lucy set ifr
erect it collapsed with a roar. Fortunately art
Italian lady, who ought to have been saying her
prayers, came to the rescue. By some mysterious-
virtue, which mothers alone possess, she stiffened.
the little boy's back-bone and imparted strength,
to his knees. He stood. Still gibbering with agi-
tation, he walked away.

"You are a clever woman," said Mr. Emerson-*
"You have done more than all the relics in the
world. I am not of your creed, but I do believe

■ in those who make their fellow-creatures happy-
There is nojicheme of the universe — "
Ht paused £br a phrase.

-*■" ' "Niente,'>said the Italian lady, and returned tC3

.her pnjjjefsT

V — ^ -40-

In Santa Croce with No Baedeker

"I'm not sure she understands English," sug-
gested Lucy.

In her chastened mood she no longer despised
(be Emersons. She was determined to be gracious
to them, beautiful rather than delicate, and, if pos-
sible, to erase Miss Bartlett's civility by some
gracious reference to the pleasant rooms.

"That woman understan ds everything," was M r.
E&eHUn'll reply. "BUt what are you dom'g'nere ?
Are you doing the church ? Are you through with
the church?"
"No," cried Lucy, remembering her grievance.
I came here with Miss Lavish, who was to ex-
plain everything; and just by the door — it is too
bad I — she simply ran away, and after waiting quite
atime, I had to come in by myself."
"Why shouldn't you ?" said Mr. Emerson.
"Yes, why shouldn't you come by yourself?" said
the son, addressing the young lady for the first
time.
"But Miss Lavish has even taken away Baedeker."
"Baedeker?" said Mr. Emerson. "I'm glad it's
it" you minded. It's worth minding, the loss of
i Baedeker. That's worth minding."

Lucy was puzzled. She was again conscious of
tome new idea, and was not sure whither it would
•nd her.

"If you've no Baedeker," said the son, "you'd
Wer join us."

-41-

A Room with a View

Was this where the idea would lead? She too
refuge in her dignity.

"Thank you very much, but I could not thin
of that. I hope you do not suppose that I cam
to join on to you. I really came to help with th
child, and to thank you for so kindly giving u
your rooms last night. I hope that you have nc
been put to any great inconvenience."

"My dear," said the old man gently, " I thin
that you are repeating what you have heard olde
people say. You are pretending to be touch)
but you are not really. Stop being so tiresonw
and tell me instead what part of the church yo
want to see. To take you to it will be a res
pleasure."

Now, this was abominably impertinent, and sh
ought to have been furious. But it is sometime
as difficult to lose one's temper as it is difficult a
other times to keep it. Lucy could not get crosf
Mr. Emerson was an old man, and surely a git
might humour him. On the other hand, his so.
was a young man, and she felt that a girl ough
to be offended with him, or at all events be offendei
before him. It was at him that she gazed befor
replying.

"I am not touchy, I hope. It is the Giottos tha
I want to see, if you will kindly tell me which the;
are."

The son nodded. With a look of sombre satis
faction, he led the way to the Peruzzi Chapel

In Santa Croce with No Baedeker

There was a hint of the teacher about him. She
felt like a child in school who had answered a
portion rightly.

The chapel was already filled with an earnest

congregation, and out of them rose the voice of a

kturer, directing them how to worship Giotto,

by tactful valuations, but by the standards of

tiie spirit.

"Remember," he was saying, "the facts about
0* church of Santa Croce; how it was built by
faith in the full fervour of medievalism, before
*ny taint of the Renaissance had appeared. Ob-
*rve how Giotto in these frescoes — now, unhappily,
finned by restoration — is untroubled by the snares
•f anatomy and perspective. Could anything be
■ore majestic, more pathetic, beautiful, true?
How little, we feel, avails knowledge and technical
deremess against a man who truly feels I"

"No!" exclaimed Mr. Emerson, in much too }
bad a-" voice for church. "Remember nothing of
4e sort I Built by faith indeed I That simply
■ems the workmen weren't paid properly. And
» for the frescoes, I see no truth in them. Look
it that fat man in blue t He must weigh as much
do, and he is shooting into the sky like an air-
Wloon."

He was referring to the fresco of the "Ascension
of St John." Inside, the lecturer's voice faltered,
« well it might. The audience shifted uneasil"
wd to did Lucy. She was sure that she
-43~

A Room with a View

not to be with these men; but they had casi
spell over her. They were so serious and so strai
that she could not remember how to behave.

"Now, did this happen, or didn't it? Yes
no?"

George replied :

"It happened like this, if it happened at i
I would rather go up to heaven by myself tr
be pushed by cherubs; and if I got there I shot
like my friends to lean out of it, just as they
•here."

"You will never go up," said his father. "Y
and I, dear boy, will lie at peace in the earth tl
bore us, and our names will disappear as surely
our work survives."

"Some of the people can only see the emj
grave, not the saint, whoever he is, going up.
did happen like that, if it happened at all."

"Pardon me," said a frigid voice. "The cha]
is somewhat small for two parties. We will
commode you no longer."

The lecturer was a clergyman, and his audiei
must be also his flock, for they held prayer-bot
as well as guide-books in their hands. They fi]
out of the chapel in silence. Amongst them w<
the two little old ladies of the Pension Bertol
— Miss Teresa and Miss Catherine Alan.

"StopI" cried Mr. Emerson. "There's pier
of room for us all. Stop!"

The procession disappeared without a woi
-44-

In Santa Croce with No Baedeker

Soon the lecturer could be heard in the next chapel,
describing the life of St. Francis.

"George, I do believe that clergyman is the Brix-
ton curate."

George went into the next chapel and returned,
saying, "Perhaps he is. I don't remember."

"Then I had better speak to him and remind
him who I am. It's that Mr. Eager. Why did he
go? Did we talk too loud? How vexatious. I
shall go and say we are sorry. Hadn't I better?
Then perhaps he will come back."

"He will not come back," said George.

But Mr. Emerson, contrite and unhappy, hur-
ried away to apologize to the Rev. Cuthbert Eager.
Lucy, apparently absorbed in a lunette, could hear
the lecture again interrupted, the anxious, aggressive
voice of the old man, the curt, injured replies of
his opponent. The son, who took every little con-
tretemps as if it were a tragedy, was listening

lllQ,

"My father has that effect on nearly every one,",
he informed her. "He will try to be kind."

"I hope we all try," said she, smiling nervously.

"Because we think it improves our characters.
But he is kind to people because he loves them; =
Mid they find him out, and are offended, or fright-
ened."

"How silly of them!" said Lucy, though in her
heart she sympathized; "I think that a kind action
done tactfully — "

-4S~

A Room with a View

"Tact I"

He threw up his head in disdain. Apparently
she had given the wrong answer. She watched
the singular creature pace up and down the chapel.
For a young man his face was rugged, and — until
the shadows fell upon it — hard. Enshadowed, it
sprang into tenderness. She saw him once again
at Rome, on the ceiling of the Sisttne Chapel, carry-
ing a burden of acorns. Healthy and muscular*
he yet gave her the feeling of greyness, of tragedy
i that might only find solution in the night. The
! feeling soon passed; it was unlike her to have en-
tertained anything so subtle. Born of silence and
of unknown emotion, it passed when Mr. Emerson
returned, and she could re-enter the world of rapid
talk, which was alone familiar to her.

"Were you snubbed?" asked his son tranquilly.

"But we have spoilt the pleasure of I don't
know how many people. They won't come back."

". . . full of innate sympathy . . . quickness to
perceive good in others . . . vision of the brother-
hood of man . . ." Scraps of the lecture on St.
Francis came floating round the partition wall.

"Don't let us spoil yours," he continued to Lucy.
"Have you looked at those saints?"

"Yes," said Lucy. "They are lovely. Do you.
know which is the tombstone that is praised in
Ruskin ?"

He did not know, and suggested that they should
try to guess it. George, rather to her relief, re-

- 4 6-

In Santa Croce with No Baedeker

fused to move, and she and the old man wandered
not unpleasantly about Santa Croce, which, though
it is like a barn, has harvested many beautiful things
inside its walls. There were also beggars to avoid,
and guides to dodge round the pillars, and an old
lady with her dog, and here and there a priest
modestly edging to his Mass through the groups of
tourists. But Mr. Emerson was only half inter-
ested. He watched the lecturer, whose success he
believed he had impaired, and then he anxiously
watched his son.

"Why will he look at that fresco?" he said un-
easily. "I saw nothing in it."

"I like Giotto," she replied. "It is so wonder-
ful what they say about his tactile values. Though
I like things tike the Delia Robbia babies better."

"So you ought. A baby is worth a dozen saints.
And my baby's worth the whole of Paradise, and as X
fir as I can see he lives in Hell."

Lucy again felt that this did not do.

"In Hell," he repeated. "He's unhappy."

"Oh, dear V said Lucy.

"How can he be unhappy when he is strong and
alive? What more is one to give him? And think
how he has been brought up— free from all the
mperstition and ignorance that lead men to hate
one another in the name of God. With such an I
education as that, I thought he was bound to grow 1
up happy."

She was no theologian, but she felt t\\%t V
-41-

A Room with a View

was a very foolish old man, as well as a very irre-
ligious one. She also felt that her mother might
not like her talking to that kind of person, and
that Charlotte would object most strongly.

"What are we to do with him?" he asked. "He
comes out for his holiday to Italy, and behaves —
like that; like the little child who ought to have
been playing, and who hurt himself upon the tomb-
stone. Eh? What did you say?"

Lucy had made no suggestion. Suddenly he
said:

"Now don't be stupid over this. I don't re-
quire you to fall in love with my boy, but I do
think you might try and understand him. You
are nearer his age, and if you let yourself go I am
sure you are sensible. You might help me. He
has known so few women, and you have the time.
You stop here several weeks, I suppose? But let
yourself go. You are inclined to get muddled, If
I may judge from last night. Let yourself go.
Pull out from the depths those thoughts that you
do not understand, and spread them out in the

(sunlight and know the meaning of them. By
understanding George you may learn to under-
stand yourself. It will be good for both of you."
To this extraordinary speech Lucy found no an-
swer.

"I only know what it is that's wrong with him;
not why it is."

-48-

In Santa Croce with No Baedeker

"And what is it?" asked Lucy fearfully, expect-
ing some harrowing tale.

"The old trouble ; things won't fit."

"What things?"

"The things of the universe. It is quite true. \
I They don't." /

"Oh, Mr. Emerson, whatever do you mean?"

In his ordinary voice, so that she scarcely re-
lalized he was quoting poetry, he said:

" 'From far, from eve and morning,
And yon twelve-winded sky,
The stuff of life to knit me
Blew hither: here am I.'

George and I both know this, but why does it
distress him? We know that we come from the
winds, and that we shall return to them; that all
life is perhaps a knot, a tangle, a blemish in the j
eternal smoothness. But why should this make
ns unhappy? Let us rather love one another, J
tnd work and rejoice. I don't believe in this \
torid sorrow."

Miss Honeychurch assented.

"Then make my boy think like us. Make him
realize that by the side of the everlasting Why I
•here is a Yes — a transitory Yes if you like, but a |-
V

Suddenly she laughed; surely one ought to laugh.
A young man melancholy because the universe.
-49~

A Room with a View

wouldn't fit, because life was a tangle or a wind
''or a Yes, or something!

"I'm very sorry," she cried. "You'll think m
unfeeling, but — but — " Then she became matronly
"Oh, but your son wants employment. Has he n<
particular hobby? Why, I myself have worries
but I can generally forget them at the piano; am
collecting stamps did no end of good for my brother
Perhaps Italy bores him; you ought to try the Alp
or the Lakes."

The old man's face saddened, and he touches
her gently with his hand. This did not alarm her
she thought that her advice had impressed him an'
that he was thanking her for it. Indeed, he a
longer alarmed her at all; she regarded him as
kind thing, but quite silly. Her feelings were a
Inflated spiritually as they had been an hour age
Eesthetlcally, before she lost Baedeker. The dea.
George, now striding towards them over the tomt
stones, seemed both pitiable and absurd. He ap
proached, his face in the shadow. He said:

"Miss Bardett."

"Oh, good gracious me!" said Lucy, suddenl
collapsing and again seeing the whole of life i:
a new perspective. "Where? Where?"

"In the nave."

"I see. Those gossiping little Miss Alans mus
have — " She checked herself.

"Poor girl I" exploded Mr. Emerson. "Pooi
£irl!"

-50-

In Santa Croce with No Baedeker

She could not let this pass, for it was just what
she was feeling herself.

"Poor girl? I fail to understand the point of
that remark. I think myself a very fortunate
gjrl, I assure you. I'm thoroughly happy, and hav-
ing a splendid time. Pray don't waste time mourn-
ing over me. There's enough sorrow in the world,
isn't there, without trying to invent it. Good-bye.
Thank you both so much for all your kindness.
Ah, yes I there does come my cousin. A delightful
morning I Santa Croce is a wonderful church."

She joined her cousin.

-Si-

Chapter III: Music, Violets, and the
Letter "S"

IT so happened that Lucy, who found daily life
rather chaotic, entered a more solid world
when she opened the piano. She was then no
longer either deferential or patronizing; no longer
either a rebel or a slave. The kingdom of music
is not the kingdom of this world; it will accept those
whom breeding and intellect and culture have alike;
rejected. The commonplace person begins to play,
and shoots into the empyrean without effort, whilst
we look up, marvelling how he has escaped us,
and thinking how we could worship him and love
him, would he but translate his visions into human
words, and his experiences into human actions.
Perhaps he cannot; certainly he does not, or doe»
so very seldom. Lucy had done so never.

She was no dazzling executante; her runs were not
at all like strings of pearls, and she struck no more
right notes than was suitable for one of her age
and situation. Nor was she the passionate young
lady, who performs so tragically on a summer'*
evening with the window open. Passion was there,
but it could not be easily labelled; it slipped be
tween love and hatred and jealousy, and alt the?
-5*-

is or
; yet \
ides, 1

ht

Music, Violets, and the Letter "S"

furniture of the pictorial style. And she was
tragical only in the sense that she was great, for
she loved to play on the side of Victory. Victory
of what and over what — that is more than the words
of daily life can tell us. But that some sonatas of
Beethoven are written tragic no one can gainsay
they can triumph or despair as the player decii
and Lucy had decided that they should triumph.

A very wet afternoon at the Bertolini permitted
her to do the thing she really liked, and after
lunch she opened the little draped piano. A few
people lingered round and praised her playing, but
finding that she made no reply, dispersed to their
rooms to write up their diaries or to sleep. She
took no notice of Mr. Emerson looking for his son,
nor of Miss Bardett looking for Miss Lavish, nor
of Miss Lavish looking for her cigarette-case. Like
tvery true performer, she was intoxicated by the
mere feel of the notes : they were fingers caressing
her own; and by touch, not by sound alone, did she
come to her desire.

Mr. Beebe, sitting unnoticed in the window, pon-
dered over this illogical element m Miss Honey-
church, and recalled the occasion at Tunbridge Wells
when he had discovered it. It was at one of those
entertainments where the upper classes entertain the
lower. The seats were filled with a respectful
audience, and the ladies and gentlemen of the parish,
under the auspices of their vicar, sang, or recited,
or imitated the drawing of a champagne c
S3-

A Room with a View

Among the promised items was "Miss Honeychurch.
Piano. Beethoven," and Mr. Beebe was wonder-
ing whether it would be Adelaide, or the march of
The Ruins of Athens, when his composure was dis-
turbed by the opening bars of Opus III. He was in
suspense all through the introduction, for not until
the pace quickens does one know what the performer
intends. With the roar of the opening theme he
knew that things were going extraordinarily; in
the chords that herald the conclusion he heard the
hammer strokes of victory. He was glad that she
only played the first movement, for he could have
paid no attention to the winding intricacies of the
measures of nine-sixteen. The audience clapped,
no less respectful. It was Mr. Beebe who started
the stamping; it was all that one could do.

"Who is she?" he asked the vicar afterwards.

"Cousin of one of my parishioners. I do not
consider her choice of a piece happy. Beethoven
is so usually simple and direct in his appeal that it is .
sheer perversity to choose a thing like that, which)
if anything, disturbs."

"Introduce me."

"She will be delighted. She and Miss Bartlett
are full of the praises of your sermon."

"My sermon?" cried Mr. Beebe. "Why ever
did she listen to it ?"

When he was introduced he understood why,
for Miss Honeychurch, disjoined from her music
stool, was only a young lady with a quantity of
-54-

Music, Violets, and the Letter "S"

dark hair and a very pretty, pale, undeveloped face.
She loved going to concerts, she loved stopping with
her cousin, she loved iced coffee and meringues.
He did not doubt that she loved his sermon also.
But before he left Tunbridge Wells he made a re-
mark to the vicar, which he now made to Lucy
herself when she closed the little piano and moved
dreamily towards him :

"If Miss Honeychurch ever takes to live as she |
plays, it will be very exciting — both for us and for j
her."

Lucy at once re-entered daily life.
"Oh, what a funny thing! Some one said just
\\ the same to mother, and she said she trusted I should
,jl never live a duet."
1 "Doesn't Mrs. Honeychurch like music?"
\ "She doesn't mind it. But she doesn't like one
to get excited over anything ; she thinks I am silly
ibout it. She thinks — I can't make out. Once,
JOT know, I said that I liked my own playing better
than any one's. She has never got over it. Of
course, I didn't mean that I played well; I only
meant — "
"Of course," said he, wondering why she bothered
explain.

"Music — " said Lucy, as if attempting some gen-
erality. She could not complete it, and looked out
absently upon Italy in the wet. The whole life
of the South was disorganized, and the most grace-
ful nation in Europe had turned into formless Vitkcjs

-ss-

A Room with a View

/ of clothes. The street and the river were dirty
■ ' yellow, the bridge was dirty grey, and the hills were
dirty purple. Somewhere in their folds were con-
cealed Miss Lavish and Miss Bartlett, who had
chosen this afternoon to visit the Torre del Gallo.

"What about music?" said Mr. Beebe.

"Poor Charlotte will be sopped," was Lucy's
reply.

The expedition was typical of Miss Bartlett, who
would return cold, tired, hungry, and angelic, with
a ruined skirt, a pulpy Baedeker, and a tickling cough
in her throat. On another day, when the whole
world was singing and the air ran into the mouth
like wine, she would refuse to stir from the drawing-
room, saying that she was an old thing, and no fit
companion for a hearty girl.

"Miss Lavish has led your cousin astray. She
hopes to find the true Italy in the wet I believe."

"Miss Lavish is so original," murmured Lucy.
This was a stock remark, the supreme achievement
of the Pension Bertolini in the way of definition.
Miss Lavish was so original. Mr. Beebe had his
doubts, but they would have been put down to cler-
ical narrowness. For that, and for other reasons, -
he held his peace.

"Is it true," continued Lucy in awe-struck tones, *
"that Miss Lavish is writing a book?"

"They do say so."

"What is it about?"

"It will be a novel," replied Mr. Beebe, "deal

Music, Violets, and the Letter "S"

ing with modern Italy. Let me refer you for an
account to Miss Catharine Alan, who uses words
herself more admirably than any one I know."

"I wish Miss Lavish would tell me herself. We
started such friends. But I don't think she ought
to have run away with Baedeker that morning in
Santa Croce. Charlotte was most annoyed at find-
ing me practically alone, and so I couldn't help be-
ing a little annoyed with Miss Lavish."

"The two ladies, at all events, have made it up."

He was interested in the sudden friendship be-
tween women so apparently dissimilar as Miss Bart-
lett and Miss Lavish. They were always in each
other's company, with Lucy a slighted third. Miss
Lavish he believed he understood, but Miss Bartlett
might reveal unknown depths of strangeness, though
not, perhaps, of meaning. Was Italy deflecting her
from the path of prim chaperon, which he had as-
signed to her at Tunbridge Wells? All his life
he had loved to study maiden ladies; they were
his specialty, and his profession had provided him
with ample opportunities for the work. Girls like
Lucy were charming to look at, but Mr. Beebe was,
from rather profound reasons, somewhat chilly in
his attitude towards the other sex, and preferred
to be interested rather than enthralled.

Lucy, for the third time, said that poor Charlotte
would be sopped. The Arno was rising in flood,
washing away the traces of the little carts upon the
ihore. But in the south-west there hid ■a.^-
-57-

A Room with a View

peared a dull haze of yellow, which might mean
better weather if it did not mean worse. She
opened the window to inspect, and a cold blast
entered the room, drawing a plaintive cry from Miss
Catharine Alan, who entered at the same moment
by the door.

"Oh, dear Miss Honeychurch, you will catch a
chilli And Mr. Beebc here besides. Who would
suppose this is Italy? There is my sister actually
nursing the hot-water can; no comforts- or proper
provisions."

She sidled towards them and sat down, self-con-
scious as she always was on entering a room which
contained one man, or a man and one woman.

"I could hear your beautiful playing, Miss Honey* -
church, though I was in my room with the door shut
Doors shut; indeed, most necessary. No one has
the least idea of privacy in this country. And one
person catches it from another."

Lucy answered suitably. Mr. Beebe was not

able to tell the ladies of his adventure at Modena,

where the chambermaid burst in upon him in his

bath, exclaiming cheerfully, "Fa niente, sono

■ vecchia." He contented himself with saying: "I .

quite agree with you, Miss Alan. The Italians artfj

. a most unpleasant people. They pry everywhere, •

they see everything, and they know what we want

before we know it ourselves. We are at their mercy.

They read our thoughts, they foretell our desires.

From the cab-driver down to — to Giotto, they turn

-5«-

Music, Violets, and the Letter "S"

us inside out, and I resent it. Yet in their heart of j
hearts they are — how superficial! They have no I
conception of the intellectual life. How right is '
Signora Bertolini, who exclaimed to me the other
day: 'Ho, Mr. Beebe, if you knew what I suffer
over the children's edjucaishion 1 Hi won't 'ave
my little Victorier taught by a hignorant Italian
what can't explain nothink I' "

Miss Alan did not follow, but gathered that she
was being mocked in an agreeable way. Her sister
was a little disappointed in Mr. Beebe, having ex-
pected better things from a clergyman whose head
was bald and who wore a pair of russet whiskers.
Indeed, who would have supposed that tolerance,
sympathy, and a sense of humour would inhabit that
militant form?

In the midst of her satisfaction she continued
to sidle, and at last the cause was disclosed. From
the chair beneath her she extracted a gun-metal
cigarette<ase, on which were powdered in turquoise
the initials "E. L." ,

"That belongs to Lavish," said the clergyman.
"A good fellow, Lavish, but I wish she'd start a
pipe."

"Oh, Mr. Beebe," said Miss Alan, divided be-
tween awe and mirth. "Indeed, though it is dread-
ful for her to smoke, it is not quite as dreadful as
you suppose. She took to it, practically in despair,
after her life's work was carried away in a land-
dip. Surely that makes it more excusable, ."
I -59-

A Room with a View

"What was that?" asked Lucy.

Mr. Bcebe sat back complacently, and Miss Alan
began as follows:

"It was a novel — and I am afraid, from what I
can gather, not a very nice novel. It is so sad
when people who have abilities misuse them, and
I must say they nearly always do. Anyhow, she left
it almost finished in the Grotto of the Calvary at
the Capuccini Hotel at Amalfi while she went for a
little ink. She said: 'Can I have a little ink,
please?' But you know what Italians are, and
meanwhile the Grotto fell roaring on to the beach,
and the saddest thing of all is that she cannot re-
member what she has written. The poor thing
was very ill after it, and so got tempted into cigar-
ettes. It is a great secret, but I am glad to say
that she is writing another novel. She told Teresa
and Miss Pole the other day that she had got up
all the local colour — this novel is to be about modern
Italy; the other was historical — but that she could
not start till she had an idea. First she tried Per-
ugia for an inspiration, then she came here — this
must on no account get round. And so cheerful
through it all ! I cannot help thinking that there is
something to admire in every one, even if you do not
approve of them."

Miss Alan was always thus being charitable
against her better judgment. A delicate pathos per-
fumed her disconnected remarks, giving them un-
expected beauty, just as in the decaying autumn
-60-

Music, Violets, and the Letter "S"

woods there sometimes rise odours reminiscent of
spring. She felt she had made almost too many
allowances, and apologized hurriedly for her tolera-
tion.

"All the same, she is a little too — I hardly like
to say unwomanly, but she behaved most strangely
when the Emersons arrived."

Mr. Beebe smiled as Miss Alan plunged into an
anecdote which he knew she would be unable to
finish in the presence of a gentleman.

"I don't know, Miss Honeychurch, If you have
noticed that Miss Pole, the lady who has so much
yellow hair, takes lemonade. That old Mr. Emer-
son, who puts things very strangely — "

Her jaw dropped. She was silent. Mr. Becbe,
whose social resources were endless, went out to
order some tea, and she continued to Lucy in a
hasty whisper:

"Stomach. He warned Miss Pole of her stom-
ach — acidity, he called it — and he may have meant
to be kind. I must say I forgot myself and laughed;
a \\:t.s so sudden. As Teresa truly said, it was no
laughing matter. But the point is that Miss Lavish
was positively attracted by his mentioning S., and
said she liked plain speaking, and meeting different
grades of thought. She thought they were com-
mercial travellers — 'drummers' was the word she
used — and all through dinner she tried to prove that
England, our great and beloved country, rests on

Kbut commerce. Teresa was very much mv-
-

A Room with a View

noycd, and left the table before the cheese, saying
as she did so: 'There, Miss Lavish, is one who
can confute you better than I, 1 and pointed to that
beautiful picture of Lord Tennyson. Then Miss
Lavish said: 'Tut I The early Victorians.' Just
imagine 1 'Tut! The early Victorians.' My sis-
ter had gone, and I felt bound to speak. I said:
> 'Miss Lavish, / am an early Victorian; at least, that
is to say, I will hear no breath of censure against our
dear Queen.' It was horrible speaking. I re-
minded her how the Queen had been to Ireland when
she did not want to go, and I must say she was
dumbfounded, and made no reply. But, unluckily,
Mr. Emerson overheard this part, and called in his
deep voice: 'Quite so, quite so! I honour the
woman for her Irish visit.' The woman I I tell
things so badly; but you see what a tangle we were
in by this time, all on account of S. having been
mentioned in the first place. But that was not all.
After dinner Miss Lavish actually came up and said:
'Miss Alan, I am going into the smoking-room to
talk to those two nice men. Come, too.' Need-
less to say, I refused such an unsuitable invitation,
and she had the impertinence to tell me that it
would broaden my ideas, and said that she had four
brothers, all University men, except one who^was Iti]
the army, who always made a point of talking t»
commercial travellers."

"Let me finish the story," said Mr. Beebe, whf
had returned. "Miss Lavish tried Miss Pole, my

-6l-

Music, Violets, and the Letter "S"

self, every one, and finally said: 'I shall go alone.'
She went. At the end of five minutes she returned
unobtrusively with a green baize board, and began
playing patience."

"Whatever happened?" cried Lucy.

"No one knows. ' No one will ever know. Miss
Lavish will never dare to tell, and Mr. Emerson
does not think it worth telling."

Mr, Beebe — old Mr. Emerson, is he nice or not
nice? I do so want to know."

Mr. Beebe laughed and suggested that she should
settle the question for herself.

"No; but it is so difficult. Sometimes he is so
silly, and then I do not mind him. Miss Alan, wha
do you think? Is he nice?"

The little old lady shook her head, and sighed
disapprovingly. Mr. Beebe, whom the coi
tioa amused, stirred her up by saying:

"I consider that you are bound to class him as
nice, Miss Alan, after that business of the violets."

"Violets? Oh, dearl Who told you about the
violets? How do things get round? A pension is
a sad place for gossips. No, I cannot forget how
they behaved at Mr. Eager's lecture at Santa Croce.
Oh, poor Miss Honeychurch! It really was too
bad! No, I have quite changed. I do not like the
Emersons. They are not nice."

Mr. Beebe smiled nonchalantly. He had made

gentle effort to introduce the Emersons into
Bertolin) society, and the effort had failed. He vtii

-6 3 -

A Room with a View

almost the only person who remained friendly to

them. Miss Lavish, who represented intellect, was

[ avowedly hostile, and now the Miss Alans, who

I stood for good breeding, were following her. Miss
Bartlett, smarting under an obligation, would
scarcely be civil. The case of Lucy was different.
She had given him a hazy account of her adventures
in Santa Croce, and he gathered that the two men
had made a curious and possibly concerted attempt
to annex her, to show her the world from their own
strange standpoint, to interest her in their private
sorrows and joys. This was impertinent; he did
not wish their cause to be championed by a young
girl: he would rather it should fail. After all, he
knew nothing about them, and pension joys, pension
sorrows, are flimsy things; whereas Lucy would be
his parishioner.

Lucy, with one eye upon the weather, finally said
that she thought the Emersons were nice; not that
she saw anything of them now. Even their seats
at dinner had been moved.

"But aren't they always waylaying you to go out
with them, dear?" said the little lady inquisitively.

"Only once. Charlotte didn't like it, and said
something — quite politely, of course."

"Most right of her. They don't understand our
ways. They must find their level."

Mr. Beebe rather felt that they had gone under.
They had given up their attempt — if it was one — to
conoucr society, and now the father was almost ai
-6+-

Music, Violets, ar^ the Letter "S"

silent as the son. He wondered whether he would
not plan a pleasant day for these folk before they
left — some expedition, perhaps, with Lucy well
chaperoned to be nice to them. It was one of Mr. |
Beebe's chief pleasures to provide people with happy /
memories.

Evening approached while they chatted; the air
became brighter; the colours on the trees and hills
were purified, and the.Arno lost its muddy solidity
and began to twinkle. There were a few streaks
of bluish-green among the clouds, a few patches of
watery light upon the earth, and then the dripping
facade of San Miniato shone brilliantly in the de-
clining sun.

"Too late to go out," said Miss Alan in a voice
of relief. "All the galleries are shut."

"I think I shall go out," said Lucy. "I want to
go round the town in the circular tram — on the plat-
form by the driver."

Her two companions looked grave. Mr. Beebe,
who felt responsible for her in the absence of Miss
Bartlett, ventured to say :

"I wish we could. Unluckily I have letters. If
you do want to go out alone, won't you be better on
your feet?"

"Italians, dear, you know," said Miss Alan.

"Perhaps I shall meet some one who reads me
hrough and through I"

But they still looked disapproval, and she so far

ronceded to Mr. Beebe as to say that she would otvVj

-6 S -

A Room with a View

go for a little walk, and keep to the street fre-
quented by tourists.

"She oughtn't really to go at all," said Mr. Beebe,
as they watched her from the window, "and she
knows it. I put it down to too much Beethoven/'j

f

Chapter IV: Fourth Chapter

MR. BEEBE was right. Lucy never knew
her desires so clearly as after music.
She had not really appreciated the clergy-
man's wit, nor the suggestive twitterings of Miss
Alan. Conversation was tedious; she wanted some-.
I iking big, and she believed that it would have come \
to her on the wind-swept platfortn of an electric /
tram.

This she might not attempt. It was unladylike.
Why? Why were most big things unladylike?
Charlotte had once explained to her why. It was
»t that ladies were inferior to men; it was
4at they were different. Their mission was to
inspire others to achievement rather than to achieve
thtmselves. Indirectly, by means of tact and a spot-
kss name, a lady could accomplish much. But if
& rushed into the fray herself she would be first
"nsured, then despised, and finally ignored. Poems
tad been written to illustrate this point.

There is much that is immortal in this medieval
ady. The dragons have gone, and so have the
bights, but still she lingers in our midst. She
signed in many an early Victorian castle, and was
Queen of much early Victorian song. It u s^j«t *
-6 7 -

V 3lJV«tt with a View

- ...-o- -■<* ** : H* tt«nfxb of business, sweet

^ -*.-*■» wKtt $*f 6tas cooked our dinner

-^ -i*. «*v ■ ywa ce grows degenerate. ]

v —» «*»* *»"'< #« springing up strange d

•^ .vs ^■Mtfowedi of heavy winds, and vas

..^^^ u*< jfwa expanses of the sea. Sh

■w.**.* ;*t : fej^&*ft of this world, how full h

%*,*&*. it*i i<*W3f t »nd war — a radiant crust

.*sAw*i *c wtttat fires, spinning towards the

^.k»" v^w- Mm. declaring that she inspires

.v !> »w** vytulh/ over the surface, havin

w«>* -i^t^wwi meetings with other men, happ

,V**<*« ^^ * E * masculine, but because the

W*<. &t*ve* the show breaks up she would 1

^(V*."- :&* «**** t» ( ' e of tiie Eternal Woman, ai

UK« ** *«* transitory self.

t:i<> nIV« aw* stand for the medieval lady,
%*& :*ch« an ideal to which she was bidd>
:*;t ^cr e><* when feeling serious. Nor ha
4rt t v $>$««* oi revolt. Here and there a rt
;.Vi» JtfMVvtJ h*r particularly, and she would 1
$*S*S -tx *** perhaps be sorry that she had
■^ IV* afternoon she was peculiarly re
ijh* *v«Kl really like to do something of -i
taE *<tt-*>S*WW disapproved. As she mighl
^y. t/« the electric tram, she went to Alir
$htffv

Vfcw she bought a photograph of Bottic
v tfc«h. ^ Venus." Venus, being a pity, spoili
JWs-Wfx v«herwi$e so charming, and Miss Bai
-68-

fiad persuaded her to do without it. (A pity in art
of course signified the nude.) Giorgione's "Tern-
pesta," the "Idolino," some of the Sistine frescoes
and the Apoxyomenos, were added to it. She felt
a little calmer then, and bought Fra Angelico's
"Coronation," Giotto's "Ascension of St. John,"
some Delia Robbla babies, and some Guido Reni
Madonnas. For her taste was catholic, and she
extended uncritical approval to every well-known
name.

But though she spent nearly seven lire, the gates
of liberty seemed still unopened. She was conscious
of her discontent; it was new to her to be conscious .
of it. "The world," she thought, "is certainly full/
of beautiful things, if only I could come across!
them," It was not surprising that Mrs. Honey-',
church disapproved of music, declaring that it al-
ways left her daughter peevish, unpractical, and
touchy.

"Nothing ever happens to me," she reflected, as
she entered the Piazza Signoria and looked non-
chalantly at its marvels, now fairly familiar to her.
The great square was in shadow; the sunshine had
come too late to strike it. Neptune was already
unsubstantial in the twilight, half god, half ghost,
and his fountain plashed dreamily to the men and
satyrs who idled together on its marge. The

S Loggia showed as the triple entrance of a cave,
therein dwelt many a deity, shadowy, but immortal,
ooking forth upon the arrivals and de^Mtait* oV
-6 9 -

I

A Room with a View

j mankind. It was the hour of unreality — the hour,

f that is, when unfamiliar things are real. An older

person at such an hour and in such a place might

think that sufficient was happening to him, and rest

content. Lucy desired more.

She fixed her eyes wistfully on the tower of the
palace, which rose out of the lower darkness like a
pillar of roughened gold. It seemed no longer a
tower, no longer supported by earth, but some un-
attainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky.
Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before
her eyes when she bent them to the ground and
started towards home.

Then something did happen.
Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering
about a debt. "Cinque lire," they had cried,
"cinque lire 1'* They sparred at each other, and
one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He
frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of
interest, as if he had an important message for her.

I He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red
came out between them and trickled down his un-
shaven chin.

That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk.
It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore
him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson
happened to be a few paces away, looking at her
across the spot where the man had been. How
very odd I Across something. Even as she caught
sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew

Fourth Chapter

dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly, slowly,
noiselessly, and the sky fell with it.

She thought: "Oh, what have I done?"

"Oh, what have I done? 1 ' she murmured, and
opened her eyes.

George Emerson still looked at her, but not
across anything. She had complained of dullness, i
and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her/
in his arms.

They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi
Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose
when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She
repeated :

"Oh, what have I done?"

"You fainted."

"I — I am very sorry."

"How are you now?"

"Perfectly well — absolutely well." And she be-
gan to nod and smile.

"Then let us come home. There's no point in
our stopping."

He held out his hand to pull her up. She pre-
tended not to see it. The cries from the fountain-
they had never ceased — rang emptily. The whole
world seemed pale and void of its original meaning.-

"How very kind you have been! I might have
hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can
go alone, thank you."

His hand was still extended.

"Oh, my photographs 1" she exclaimed sudAwvVj .

I

A Room with a View

"What photographs?"

"I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I
must have dropped them out there in the square."
She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to
your kindness by fetching them?"

He added to his kindness. As soon as he had
turned his back, Lucy arose with the cunning of a
maniac and stole down the arcade towards the
Arno.

"Miss Honeychurchl" .

She stopped with her hand on her heart.

"You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." B

"Yes, I am, thank you so very much."

"No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." *

"But I had rather — " ^

"Then I don't fetch your photographs."

"I had rather be alone."

He said imperiously: "The man is dead — the
man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested."
She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't
move till I come back." ,

In the distance she saw creatures with blacfe
hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace
tower had lost the reflection of the declining da^,
and joined itself to earth. How should she tal3*
to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shad-
owy square? Again the thought occurred to he*"
"Oh, what have I done?" — the thought that sh«
< as well as the dying man, had crossed some spi*^
\ itual boundary.

Fourth Chapter

He returned, and she talked of the murder.
Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of
the Italian character; she became almost garrulous
over the incident that had made her faint five min-
utes before. Being strong physically, she soon
overcame the horror of blood. She rose without
his assistance, and though wings seemed to nutter
inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the
Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they
refused him.

"And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say
— how very odd Italians are I — and gave himself
up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Ital-
ians know everything, but I think they are rather
childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti
yesterday— What was that?"

He had thrown something Into the stream.

"What did you throw in?"

"Things I didn't want," he said crossly.

"Mr. Emerson 1"

"Well?"

"Where are the photographs?"
la*l He was silent,
dtf'l "I believe it was my photographs that you threw

haJ-l "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried,
htfl *wl his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her
.foil wit warmed towards him for the first time,
spit I They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad
"w told you; and all the time we we.it mi*.-

A Room with a View

tng conversation I was wondering what to do
with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've
gone." The river swirled under the bridge. "I
did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed
better that they should go out to the sea — I don't
know; I may just mean that they frightened me."
Then the boy verged into a man. "For something
tremendous has happened; I must face it without
getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has
died."

Something warned Lucy that she must stop him.

"It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean
to find out what it is."

"Mr. Emerson — "

He turned towards her frowning, as if she had
disturbed him in some abstract quest.

"I want to ask you something before we go in."

They were close to their pension. She stopped .
and leant her elbows against the parapet of the
embankment. He did likewise. There is at times,
a magic in identity of position; it is one of the ;
things that have suggested to us eternal comrade-
ship. She moved her elbows before saying:

"I have behaved ridiculously."

He was following his own thoughts.

"I was never so much ashamed of myself in my >
life; I cannot think what came over me."

"I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt,
that her attitude repelled him.

"Well, I owe you a thousand apologies."

Fourth Chapter

"Oh, all right."

"And — this is the real point — you know how
silly people are gossiping — ladies especially, I am
afraid — you understand what I mean?"
"I'm afraid I don't."

"I mean, would you not mention it to any one,
my foolish behaviour?"
"Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right — all right."
"Thank you so much. And would you — "
She could not carry her request any further.
The river was rushing below them, almost black in
the advancing night. He had thrown her photo-
graphs into it, and then he had told her the reason.
It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chiv-
alry in such a man. He would do her no harm by
idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and
even kind; he might even have a high opinion of
her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his
behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was
useless to say to him, "And would you — " and hope
that he would complete the sentence for himself,
averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight
in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms,
and he remembered it, just as he remembered the
blood on the photographs that she had bought in
Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had
died; something had happened to the living: they \
had come to a situation where character tells, and I
where Childhood enters upon the branching paths \
of Youth.

-7S-

A Room with a View

"Well, thank you so much," she repeated.
"How quickly these accidents do happen, and then
one returns to the old life!"

"I don't."

Anxiety moved her to question him.

His answer was puzzling: ."I shall probably
want to live."

"But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?"

"I shall want to live, I say."

Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contem-
plated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting
some unexpected melody to her ears.

-7«-

Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant
Outing

IT was a family saying that "you never knew
which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn."
She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over
Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it
quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the
courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss
Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been
stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young
officials there, who seemed impudent and desceu-vre,
bad tried to search their reticules for provisions.
It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately
Miss Lavish was a match for any one.

For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her
problem alone. None of her friends had seen her,
either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embank-
ment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled
eyes at dinner-rime, had again passed to himself
4e remark of "Too much Beethoven." But "he
«ily supposed that she was ready for an adventure,
not that she had encountered it. This solitude
oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her
Noughts confirmed by others or, at all events, con-
(fcldicted ; it was too dreadful not to know whether
was thinking right or wrong.

A Room with a View

At breakfast next morning she took decisive ac-
tion. There were two plans between which she
had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the
Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some Amer-
ican ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Hon-
eychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for
herself; she had been there in the rain the previous
afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea
for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money,
fetching letters, and other irksome duties — all of
which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning
and could easily accomplish alone.

"No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real
warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I
am certainly coming with you. I had much
rather."

"Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a
faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep
flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abom-
inably she behaved to Charlotte, now as alwaysl
But now she should alter. All morning she would
be really nice to her.

She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they
started off along the Lung' Arno. The river wa»
a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour.
Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet
to look at it. She then made her usual remark,
which was:

"How I do wish Freddy and your mother could
see this, tool"

Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing

Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to
have stopped exactly where she did.

"Look, Lucia I Oh, you are watching for the
Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent
you of your choice."

Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not
repent. Yesterday had been a muddle — queer and
odd, the kind of thing one could not write down
easily on paper — but she had a feeling that Char-j^
lotte and her shopping were preferable to George
Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo.
Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must
take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sin-
cerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations.

But though she had avoided the chief actor, the
icenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with
the complacency of fate, led her from the river to
the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed
that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower,
would have such significance. For a moment she
understood the nature of ghosts. - — '

The exact site of the murder was occupied, not
by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morn-
ing newspaper in her hand. She hailed them
briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous
day had given her an idea which she thought would
Work up into a book.

"Oh, let me congratulate youl" said Miss Bart-
ktt "After your despair of yesterday I What
> fortunate thing I"

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A Room with a View

"Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here! I
am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely
everything that you saw from the beginning."

Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol.

"But perhaps you would rather not?"

"I'm sorry — if you could manage without it, I
think I would rather not."

The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of dis-
approval; it is suitable that a girl should feel
deeply.

"It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish. "We
literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe
there's no secret of the human heart into which we
wouldn't pry."

She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back,
and did a few calculations in realism. Then she
said that she had been in the Piazza since eight
o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it was
unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt.
The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note.
For the five-franc note she should substitute a
young lady, which would raise the tone of the trag-
edy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot.

"What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bart-
lett.

"Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name
was Eleanor.
»vl do hope she's nice."

That desideratum would not be omitted. j

"And what is the plot?" I

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Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing

Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot.
Out it all came while the fountain plashed to the
satyrs in the morning sun.

"I hope you will excuse me for boring on like
this," Miss Lavish concluded. "It is so tempting
to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course,
this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of
local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the
neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some
humorous characters. And let me give you all fair
warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British
tourist."

"Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett.
"I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons."
Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile.
"I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not
with my own countrymen. It is the neglected Ital-
ians who attract me, and whose lives I am going
to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist,
and I have always held most strongly, that a trag-
edy such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because
it happened in humble life."

There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish
had concluded. Then the cousins wished success
to her labours, and walked slowly away across the
square.

"She is my idea of a really clever woman," said
Miss Bartlett. "That last remark struck me as so
particularly true. It should be a most pathetic
novel."

-8 1-

A Room with a View

Lucy assented. At present her great aim was
not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morn-
ing were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss
Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue.

"She is emancipated, but only in the very best
sense of the word," continued Miss Bartlett
slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked
at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She be-
lieves in justice and truth and human interest. She
told me also that she has a high opinion of the
destiny of woman — Mr. Eager I Why, how
nicel What a pleasant surprise!"

"Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for
I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch
for quite a little time."

"We were chatting to Miss Lavish."

His brow contracted.

"So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate vial
sono occupato!" The last remark was made to a
vender of panoramic photographs who was ap-
proaching with a courteous smile. "I am about to
venture a suggestion. Would you and Miss Honey-
church be disposed to join me in a drive some day
this week — a drive in the hills? We might go up
by Fiesole and back by Settignano. There is a
point on that road where we could get down and
have an hour's ramble on the hillside. The view
thence of Florence is most beautiful — far better
than the hackneyed view of Fiesole. It is the view
that Alessio Baldovinetti is fond of introducing in-
-82-

Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing

to his pictures. That man had a decided feeling
for landscape. Decidedly. But who looks at it
to-day? Ah, the world is too much for us."

Miss Bartlctt had not heard of Alessio Baldo-
vinetti, but she knew that Mr. Eager was no com-
monplace chaplain. He was a member of the res-
idential colony who had made Florence their home.
He knew the people who never walked about with
Baedekers, who had learnt to take a siesta after
lunch, who took drives the pension tourists had
never heard of, and saw by private influence gal-
leries which were closed to them. Living in delicate
seclusion, some in furnished flats, others in Renais-
sance villas on Fiesole's slope, they read, wrote,
studied, and exchanged ideas, thus attaining to that
intimate knowledge, or rather perception, of
Florence which is denied to all who carry in their
pockets the coupons of Cook.

Therefore an invitation from the chaplain was
something to be proud of. Between the two sec-
tions of his flock he was often the only link, and
it was his avowed custom to select those of his
migratory sheep who seemed worthy, and give them
a few hours in the pastures of the permanent. Tea
at a Renaissance villa? Nothing had been said
about it yet. But if it did come to that — how Lucy
would enjoy it I

A few days ago and Lucy would have felt the
same. But the joys of life were grouping them- '
selves anew. A drive in the hills with Mr. TCv&%tT

-s 3 -

A Room with a View

and Miss Bartlett — even if culminating in a resi-
dential tea-party — was no longer the greatest of
them. She echoed the raptures of Charlotte some-
what faintly. Only when she heard that Mr. Beebe
was also coming did her thanks become more sin-
cere.

"So we shall be a ftfrtie carree," said the chap-
lain. "In these days of toil and tumult one has
great needs of the country and its message of
purity. Andate via 1 andate presto, presto 1 Ah,
the town I Beautiful as it is, it is the town."

They assented.

"This very square — so I am told — witnessed
yesterday the most sordid of tragedies- To one
who loves the Florence of Dante and Savonarola
there is something portentous in such desecration
— portentous and humiliating."

"Humiliating indeed," said Miss Bartlett. "Miss
Honeychurch happened to be passing through
as it happened. She can hardly bear to speak of
it." She glanced at Lucy proudly.

"And how came we to have you here?" asked
the chaplain paternally.

Miss Bartlett's recent liberalism oozed away at
the question.

"Do not blame her, please, Mr. Eager. The
fault is mine : I left her unchaperoned."

"So you were here alone, Miss Honeychurch?"
His voice suggested sympathetic reproof but at
the same time indicated that a few harrowing de-

-H-

Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing

tails would not be unacceptable. His dark, hand-
some face drooped mournfully towards her to catch
her reply.

"Practically."

"One of our pension acquaintances kindly
brought her home," said Miss Bartlett, adroidy con-
cealing the sex of the preserver.

"For her also it must have been a terrible ex-
perience. I trust that neither of you was at
all — that it was not in your immediate proxim-

Of the many things Lucy was noticing to-day,
not the least remarkable was this: the ghoulish
fashion in which respectable people will nibble after
blood. George Emerson had kept the subject!
strangely pure. '

"He died by the fountain, I believe," was her
reply.

"And you and your friend "

"Were over at the Loggia."

"That must have saved you much". You have
not, of course, seen the disgraceful illustrations
which the gutter Press — This man is a public
nuisance; he knows that I am a resident perfectly
well, and yet he goes on worrying me to buy his
vulgar views."

Surely the vendor of photographs was in league

with Lucy — in the eternal league of Italy with youth.

He had suddenly extended his book before Miss

Bwtlett and Mr. Eager, binding their YumAa \»-

S S -

A Room with a View

gether by a long glossy ribbon of churches, pictur
and views.

"This is too much I" cried the chaplain, striki
petulantly at one of Fra Angelico's angels. S
tore. A shrill cry rose from the vendor. T
book it seemed, was more valuable than one woi
have supposed.

"Willingly would I purchase — " began M
Bartlett.

"Ignore him," said Mr. Eager sharply, and th
all walked rapidly away from the square.

But an Italian can never be ignored, least
all when he has a grievance. His mysterious p<
secution of Mr. Eager became relentless; the ;
rang with his threats and lamentations. He t
pealed to Lucy; would not she intercede? He w
pooi" — he sheltered a family — the tax on brea
He waited, he gibbered, he was recompensed,
was dissatisfied, he did not leave them until he h:
swept their minds clean of all thoughts wheth
pleasant or unpleasant.

Shopping was the topic that now ensued. Und
the chaplain's guidance they selected many hideo
presents and mementoes — florid little picture-fram
that seemed fashioned in gilded pastry; other litt
frames, more severe, that stood on little ease
and were carven out of oak; a blotting book
vellum; a Dante of the same material; cheap mos:
brooches, which the maids, next Christmas, wou
never tell from real; pins, pots, heraldic saucei
-86-

Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing

brown art-photographs; Eros and Psyche in alabas-
ter; St. Peter to match — all of which would have
cost less in London.

This successful morning left no pleasant impres-
sions on Lucy. She had been a little frightened,
both by Miss Lavish and by Mr. Eager, she knew
not why. And as they frightened her, she had,
strangely enough, ceased to respect them. She
doubted that Miss Lavish was a great artist. She
doubted that Mr. Eager was as full of spirituality
and culture as she had been led to suppose. They
were tried by some new test, and they were found
ranting. As for Charlotte — as for Charlotte she
was exactly the same. It might be possible to be
nice to her; it was impossible to love her.

"The son of a labourer; I happen to know it
for a fact. A mechanic of some sort himself when
be was young; then he took to writing for the
Socialistic Press. I came across him at Brixton."

They were talking about the Emersons.

"How wonderfully people rise in these days I"
tighed Miss iBartlett, fingering a model of the
leaning Tower of Pisa.

"Generally," replied Mr. Eager, "one has only
tympathy for their success. The desire for educa-
tion and for social advance — in these things there
,f I* something not wholly vile. There are some
working men whom one would be very willing to
Id I* out here in Florence: — little as they would make

-8 7 - _

A Room with a View

"Is he a journalist now?" Miss Bartlctt asked

"He is not; he made an advantageous marriage.'

He uttered this remark with a voice full o:
meaning, and ended with a sigh.

"Oh, so he has a wife."

"Dead, Miss Bartlett, dead. I wonder — yes, 1
wonder how he has the effrontery to look me ii
the face, to dare to claim acquaintance with me
He was in my London parish long ago. The othej
day in Santa Croce, when he was with Miss Honey
church, I snubbed him. Let him beware that hi
does not get more that a snub."

"What?" cried Lucy, flushing.

"Exposure I" hissed Mr. Eager.

He tried to change the subject; but in scoring
a dramatic point he had interested his audieno
more than he had intended. Miss Bartlett was ful
of very natural curiosity. Lucy, though she wishe*
never to see the Emersons again, was not dispose*
to condemn them on a single word.

"Do you mean," she asked, "that he is an irre
Hgious man? We know that already."

"Lucy, dear — " said Miss Bartlett, gently re
proving her cousin's penetration.

"I should be astonished if you knew all.- Th<
boy — an innocent child at the time — I will exclude
God knows what his education and his inherited
qualities may have made him."

"Perhaps," said Miss Bartlett, "it is somcthinl
that we had better not hear." .^

Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing

"To speak plainly," said Mr. Eager, "it is. I
will say no more."

For the first time Lucy's rebellious thoughts
swept out in words- — for the first time in her life.

"You have said very little."

"It was my intention to say very little," was his
frigid reply-

He gazed indignantly at the girl, who met him
with equal indignation. She turned towards him
from the shop counter; her breast heaved quickly.
He observed her brow, and the sudden strength of
her lips. It was intolerable that she should dis-
believe him.

"Murder, if you want to know," he cried angrily.
"That man murdered his wife I"
How?" she retorted.

To all intents and purposes he murdered her.
That day in Santa Croce — did they say anything
igainst me?"

"Not a word, Mr. Eager — not a single word."

"Oh, I thought they had been libelling me to

u. But I suppose it is only their personal charms
4at makes you defend them."

"in not defending them," said Lucy, losing her
courage, and relapsing into the old chaotic methods.
They're nothing to me."

"How could you think she was defending
them?" said Miss Bartlett, much discomfited by
U fee unpleasant scene. The shopman was possibly
Ettening.

A Room with a View

"She will find it difficult For that man ha:
murdered his wife in the sight of God."

The addition of God was striking. But the chap
lain was really trying to qualify a rash remark
A silence followed which might have been impres
sive, but was merely awkward. Then Miss Bart
lett hastily purchased the Leaning Tower, and let
the way into the street.

"I must be going," said he, shutting his eyes am
taking out his watch.

Miss Bartlett thanked him for his kindness, anc
spoke with enthusiasm of the approaching drive

"Drive? Oh, is our drive to come off?"

Lucy was recalled to her manners, and after i
little exertion the complacency of Mr. Eager wa;
restored.

"Bother the drive!" exclaimed the girl, as sooi
as he had departed. "It is just the drive we hat
arranged with Mr. Beehe without any fuss at all
Why should he invite us in that absurd manner*
We might as well invite him. We are each paying
for ourselves."

Miss Bartlett, who had intended to lament ovei
the Emersons, was launched by this remark intc
unexpected thoughts.

"If that is so, dear — if the drive we and Mr.
Beebc are going with Mr. Eager is really the same
as the one we are going with Mr. Beebe, then 1
foresee a sad kettle of fish."

"How?"

Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing

\ "Because Mr. Beebe has asked Eleanor Lavish
i to come, too."

"That will mean another carriage."

"Far worse. Mr. Eager does not like Eleanor.
She knows it herself. The truth must be told; she
is too unconventional for him."

They were now in the newspaper-room at the
English bank. Lucy stood by the central table,
heedless of Punch and the Graphic, trying to an-
swer, or at all events to formulate the questions
rioting in her brain. The well-known world had <
broken up, and there emerged Florence, a magic ■
city where people thought and did the most extraor- j
dinary things. Murder, accusations of murder,
a lady clinging to one man and being rude to an-
other — were these the daily incidents of her streets ?
Was there more in her frank beauty than met the
eye — the power, perhaps, to evoke passions, good
and bad, and to bring them speedily to a fulfillment?

Happy Charlotte, who, though greatly troubled
over things that did not matter, seemed oblivious
to things that did; who could conjecture with ad-
mirable delicacy "where things might lead to," but
apparently lost sight of the goal as she approached
it! Now she was crouching in the corner trying
to extract a circular note from a kind of linen nose-
bag which hung in chaste concealment round her
neck. She had been told that this was the only
ufe way to carry money in Italy; it must only he
broached within the walls of the English, barit. &&
-91-

A Room with a View

she groped she murmured: "Whether it is Mr.
Beebe who forgot to tell Mr. Eager, or Mr. Eager
who forgot when he told us, or whether they have
decided to leave Eleanor out altogether — which
they could scarcely do — but in any case we must be
prepared. It is you they really want; I am only
asked for appearances. You shall go with the two
gentlemen, and I and Eleanor will follow behind.
A one-horse carriage would do for us. Yet how
difficult it is!"

"It Is indeed," replied the girl, with a gravity
that sounded sympathetic.

"What do you think about it?" asked Miss
Bartlett, flushed from the struggle, and buttoning
up her dress.

"I don't know what I think, nor what I want."

"Oh, dear, Lucy! I do hope Florence isn't
boring you. Speak the word, and, as you know, I
would take you to the ends of the earth to-morrow."

"Thank you, Charlotte," said Lucy, and pondered
over the offer.

There were letters for her at the bureau— one
from her brother, full of athletics and biology; one
from her mother, delightful as only her mother's
letters could be. She had read in it of the crocuses
which had been bought for yellow and were coming
up puce, of the new parlour-maid, who had watered
the ferns with essence of lemonade, of the semi-
detached cottages which were ruining Summer
Street, and breaking the heart of Sir Harry Otway.
-91-

Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing

She recalled the free, pleasant life of her home,
where she was allowed to do everything, and
where nothing ever happened to her. The road
up through the pine-woods, the clean drawing-
room, the view over the Sussex Weald — all hung
before her bright and distinct, but pathetic as the
pictures in a gallery to which, after much experi-
ence, a traveller returns.
"And the news?" asked Miss Bartlett.
"Mrs. Vyse and her son have gone to Rome,"
siid Lucy, giving the news that interested her
least. "Do you know the Vyses?"

"Oh, not that way back. We can never have
too much of the dear Piazza Signoria."

"They're nice people, the Vyses. So clever
—my idea of what's really clever. Don't you
long to be In Rome?"

"I die for it!" ,^"~~^ *>

The Piazza Signoria is baajtony-tb^o'e brilliant.
, It has no grass, no flowers, no frescoes, no glitter-
ling walls of marble or comforting patches of ruddy
I brick. By an odd chance — unless we believe in a
presiding genius of places — the statues that relieve
ti severity suggest, not the innocence of child-
hood, nor the glorious bewilderment of youth, but
4e conscious achievements of maturity. Perseus
»d Judith, Hercules and Thusnelda, they have
■one or suffered something, and though they are
■mortal, immortality has come to them after
Ittperience, not before. Here, not onVf "A "?

)

-93-

A Room with a View

solitude of Nature, might a hero meet a goddess,
or a heroine a god.

"Charlotte I" cried the girl suddenly. "Here's
an idea. What if we popped off to Rome to-mor-
row — straight — to the Vyses' hotel ? For I do
know what I want. I'm sick of Florence. Now,
you said you'd go to the ends of the earth 1 Do 1
Dot"

Miss Bartlett, with equal vivacity, replied :

"Oh, you droll person! Pray, what would be-
come of your drive in the hills ?"

They passed together through the gaunt beauty
of the square, laughing over the unpractical sug-
gestion.

Chapter VI : The Reverend Arthur
Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager,
Mr. Emerson, Mr. George Emerson,
Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss Charlotte
Bartlett, and Miss Lucy Honey-
church Drive Out in Carriages to See
a View; Italians Drive Them.

IT was Phaethon who drove them to Fiesole
that memorable day, a youth all irresponsibility
and 6re, recklessly urging his master's horses up
the stony hill. Mr. Beebe recognized him at once.
Neither the Ages of Faith nor the Age of Doubt
had touched him; he was Phaethon in Tuscany
I driving a cab. And it was Persephone whom he
uked leave to pick up on the way, saying that she
*» his sister — Persephone, tall and slender and
pile, returning with the Spring to her mother's
Wage, and still shading her eyes from the unac-
customed light. To her Mr. Eager objected, saying
•hat here was the thin edge of the wedge, and one
•lit guard against imposition. But the ladies in-
becded, and when it had been made clear that it
is a very great favour, the goddess was allowed
1 mount beside the god.

Phaethon at once slipped the left rein ovtt \v»*
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A Room with a View

head, thus enabling himself to drive with his arm
round her waist. She did not mind. Mr. Eager,
who sat with his back to the horses, saw nothing of
the indecorous proceeding, and continued his con-
versation with Lucy. The other two occupants of
the carriage were old Mr. Emerson and Miss
Lavish. For a dreadful thing had happened:
Mr. Beebe, without consulting Mr. Eager, had
doubled the size of the party. And though Miss
Bartlett and Miss Lavish had planned all the morn-
ing how the people were to sit, at the critical moment
when the carriages came round they lost their heads,
and Miss Lavish got in with Lucy, while Miss Bart-
lett, with George Emerson and Mr. Beebe, followed
on behind.

It was hard on the poor chaplain to have his
partie carree thus transformed. Tea at a Renais-
sance villa, if he had ever meditated it, was now
impossible. Lucy and Miss Bartlett had a certain
style about them, and Mr. Beebe, though unre-
liable, was a man of parts. But a shoddy lady
writer and a journalist who had murdered his wife
in the sight of Goo! — they should enter no villa at
his introduction.

Lucy, elegantly dressed in white, sat erect and
nervous amid these explosive ingredients, attentive
to Mr. Eager, repressive towards Miss Lavish,
watchful of old Mr. Emerson, hitherto fortunately '
asleep, thanks to a heavy lunch and the drowsy
atmosphere of Spring. She looked on the expedt'

A Drive

lion as the work of Fate. But for it she would «
have avoided George Emerson successfully. In /
in open manner he had shown that he wished to |
continue their intimacy. She had refused, not be-
cause she disliked him, but because she did not know
what had happened, and suspected that he did
blow. And this frightened her.

For the real event — whatever it was — had taken
place, not in the Loggia, but by the river. To be-
tave wildly at the sight of death is pardonable.
But to discuss it afterwards, to pass from discus-
son into silence, and through silence into sympathy,
fot is an error, not of a startled emotion, but of
k whole fabric. There was really something]
ilameworthy (she thought) in their joint contem-
btion of the shadowy stream, in the common im-
olse which had turned them to the house without
b passing of a look or word. This sense of
rickedness had been slight at first. She had nearly
d the party to the Torre del Gallo. But each
that she avoided George it became more irri-
gative that she should avoid him again. And
celestial irony, working through her cousin
two clergymen, did not suffer her to leave
A Wcnce till she had made this expedition with him
rt tough the hills.

Meanwhile Mr. Eager held her in civil converse;
h tir little tiff was over.

"So, Miss Honeychurch, you are travel
>i student of art?"

-97-

A Room with a View

"Oh, dear me, no — oh, no I"

"Perhaps as a student of human nature," l
posed Miss Lavish, "like myself?"

"Oh, no. I am here as a tourist."

"Oh, indeed," said Mr. Eager. "Are you in-
deed? If you will not think me rude, wc resi-
dents sometimes pity you poor tourists not a little
— handed about like a parcel of goods from Venice
to Florence, from Florence to Rome, living herded
together in pensions or hotels, quite unconscious
of anything that is outside Baedeker, their one anx-
iety to get 'done' or 'through' and go on somewhere
else. The result is, they mix up towns, rivers,
palaces in one inextricable whirl. You know the
American girl in Punch who says: 'Say, poppa,
what did we see at Rome?' And the father replies':
'Why, guess Rome was the place where we saw the
yaller dog.' There's travelling for you. Ha I hat
ha!"

"I quite agree," said Miss Lavish, who had
several times tried to interrupt his mordant wib
"The narrowness and superficiality of the Angl*
Saxon tourist is nothing less than a menace."

"Quite so. Now, the English colony at Flof
ence, Miss Honeychurch — and it is of considerable
size, though, of course, not all equally — a fen :
are here for trade, for example. But the greatd i
part are students. Lady Helen Laverstock is a 1 i
present busy over Fra Angelico. I mention "hd
name because we are passing her villa on the left
-9«-

A Drive

N'o, you can only see it if you stand — no, do not
stand; you will fall. She is very proud of that
thick hedge. Inside, perfect seclusion. One
might have gone back six hundred years. Some
critics believe that her garden was the scene of
The Decameron, which lends it an additional

interest, does it not?"
"It does indeed I" cried Miss Lavish. "Tell
me, where do they place the scene of that wonder-
ful seventh day?"

But Mr. Eager proceeded to tell Miss Honey-
tfauch that on the right lived Mr. Someone Some-
ting, an American of the best type — so rare I —
•d that the Somebody Elses were farther down
k hill. "Doubtless you know her monographs
« the series of 'Medieval Byways* ? He is work-
H at Gemistus Pletko. Sometimes as I take
to in their beautiful grounds I hear, over the
nil, the electric tram squealing up the new road
iMi its loads of hot, dusty, unintelligent tourists
lio are going to 'do' Fiesole in an hour in order
■t they may say they have been there, and I
Knk — I think — I think how little they think what
b so near them."

During this speech the two figures on the box
<re sporting with each other disgracefully,
icy had a spasm of envy. Granted that they
»hcd to misbehave, it was pleasant for them to
I able to do so. They were probably the only
•pie enjoying the expedition. The cut\%%«.
-99-

A Room with a View

swept with agonizing jolts up through the Piaz
of Fiesolc and into the Settignano road.

"Piano! piano I" said Mr. Eager, eleganl
waving his hand over his head.

"Va bene, signore, va bene, va bene," croon'
the driver, and whipped his horses up again.

Now Mr. Eager and Miss Lavish began to ta
against each other on the subject of Alessio Bald
vinetti. Was he a cause of the Renaissance, i
was he one of its manifestations? The oth
carriage was left behind. As the pace increasi
to a gallop the large, slumbering form of M
Emerson was thrown against the chaplain with t
regularity of a machine.

"Piano! piano!" said he, with a martyred lo<
at Lucy.

An extra lurch made him turn angrily in his se:
Phaethan, who for some time had been endeavot
ing to kiss Persephone, had just succeeded.

A little scene ensued, which, as Miss Bartl*
said afterwards, was most unpleasant. The hors
were stopped, the lovers were ordered to disentanj
themselves, the boy was to lose his pourboire, t
girl was immediately to get down.

"She is my sister," said he, turning round ■
them with piteous eyes.

Mr. Eager took the trouble to tell him that

was a liar. Phaethon hung down his head, o

at the matter of 1 the accusation, but at its maiuv

At this point Mr. Emerson, whom the shock

-100-

A Drive

topping had awoke, declared that' the lovers must
in no account be separated, and patted them on the
tack, to signify his approval. And Miss Lavish,
chough unwilling to ally him, felt bound-to support
die cause of Bohemianism.

"Most certainly I would let them be," she. cried.
"But I dare say I shall receive scant support.
I have always flown in the face of the conventions

Sll my life. This is what / call an adventure."
"We must not submit," said Mr. Eager. "t
mew he was trying it on. He is treating us as if
lewere a party of Cook's tourists."
1 "Surely no!" said Miss Lavish, her ardour
'isibly decreasing.

The other carriage had drawn up behind, and
tnsible Mr. Beebe called out that after this warning
3 ke couple would be sure to behave themselves
" fopcrly.

"Leave them alone," Mr. Emerson begged the

aplatn, of whom he stood in no awe. "Do we

' id happiness so often that we should turn it off

'' e box when it happens to sit there? To be

iven by lovers — A king might envy us, and if

(part them it's more like sacrilege than anything

1 biow."

Hrre the voice of Miss Bartlett was heard say-

fat a crowd had begun to collect.
■. Eager, who suffered from an ov«
e rather than a resolute will, was dett
ike himself heard. He addressed Am
-i or-

A Rpom with a View

again. Italian in- the mouth of Italians is a deep-
voiced stream,' with unexpected cataracts and
boulders to.- preserve it from monotony. In Mr.
Eager's mouth it resembled nothing so much as an
acid whistling fountain which played ever higher
and higher, and quicker and quicker, and more
and more shrilly, till abruptly it was turned off with
a click.

"Signorina!" said the man to Lucy, when the
display had ceased. Why should he appeal to
Lucy?

"Signorina!" echoed Persephone in her glorious
contralto. She pointed at the other carriage.
Why?

For a moment the two girls looked at each
other. Then Persephone got down from the bot

"Victory at last I" said Mr. Eager, smiting his
hands together as the carriages started again.

"It is not victory," said Mr. Emerson. "It is
defeat. You have parted two people who were
happy."

Mr. Eager shut his eyes. He was obliged to
sit next to Mr. Emerson, but he would not speak
to him. The old man was refreshed by sleep, and
took up the matter warmly. He commanded
Lucy to agree with him; he shouted for support
to his son.

"We have tried to buy what cannot be bougl
with money. He has bargained to drive us,
he is doing It. We have no rights over his soul.
-ioa-

oul.^

A Drive

Miss Lavish frowned. It is hard when a per-
son you have classed as typically British speaks
out of his character.

"He was not driving us well," she said. "He
jolted us."

"That I deny. It was as restful as sleeping.
Aha! he is jolting us now. Can you wonder? He
would like to throw us out, and most certainly he
Is justified. And if I were superstitious I'd be
[frightened of the girl, too. It doesn't do to injure
ljoung people. Have you ever heard of Lorenzo
Ifc Medici ?"
I Miss Lavish bristled.

I "Most certainly I have. Do you refer to Lorenzo
JlMagnifico, or to Lorenzo, Duke of Urbino, or to
jtaenzo surnamed Lorenzino on account of his
bninutive stature ?"

'The Lord knows. Possibly he does know, for I

tfer to Lorenzo the poet. He wrote a line — so

heard yesterday — which runs like this: 'Don't

I fighting against the Spring.' "

Mr. Eager could not resist the opportunity for

Bdition.

"Non fate guerra al Maggio," he murmured.

War not with the May' would render a correct

tailing."

The point is, we have warred with it. Look."

t pointed to the Val d' Arno, which was

r below them, through the budding trees.-

let of Spring, and we've come up to
-103-

A Room with a View

them. Do you suppose there's any difference I
twcen Spring in nature and Spring in man? E
there we go, praising the one and condemning t
other as improper, ashamed that the same la
work eternally through both."

No one encouraged him to talk. Present
Mr. Eager gave a signal for the carriages to stc
and marshalled the party for their ramble on t
hill. A hollow like a great amphitheatre, full
terraced steps and misty olives, now lay betwe
them and the heights of Fiesole, and the road, si
following its curve, was about to sweep on to
promontory which stood out in the plain. It w
this promontory, uncultivated, wet, covered wi
bushes and occasional trees, which had caught t
fancy of Alessio Baldovinetti nearly five hundr
years before. He had ascended it, that dllige
and rather obscure master, possibly with an eye
business, possibly for the joy of ascending. Star
ing there, he had seen that view of the Va! d' Ar
and distant Florence, which he afterwards h
introduced not very effectively into his work. B
where exactly had he stood ? That was the questi
which Mr. Eager hoped to solve now. And M
Lavish, whose nature was attracted by anythi
problematical, had become equally enthusiastic.

But it is not easy to carry the pictures of Ales:
Baldovinetti in your head, even if you have :
membered to look at them before starring. A
the haze in the valley increased the difficulty of t

A Drive

quest. The party sprang about from tuft to tuft
of grass, their anxiety to keep together being only
equalled by their desire to go different directions.
Finally they split into groups. Lucy clung to Miss
Bartlett and Miss Lavish; the Emersons returned
to hold laborious converse with the drivers; while
the two clergymen, who were expected to have
topics in common, were left to each other.

The two elder ladies soon threw off the mask.
In the audible whisper that was now so familiar to
Lucy they began to discuss, not Alessio Baldovinetti,
but the drive. Miss Bartlett had asked Mr. George
Emerson what his profession was, and he had an-
swered "the railway." She was very sorry that she
had asked him. She had no idea that it would be
such a dreadful answer, or she would not have asked
him. Mr. Beebe had turned the conversation so
cleverly, and she hoped that the young man was not
very much hurt at her asking him.

"The railway!" gasped Miss Lavish. "Oh, but
I shall die! Of course it was the railway 1" She
could not control her mirth. "He is the image of a
porter — on, on the South-Eastern."

"Eleanor, be quiet," plucking at her vivacious
companion. "Hush! They'll hear — the Emer-
sons — "

"I can't stop. Let me go my wicked way. A
porter — "

"Eleanor!"

"I'm sure it's all right," put in Lucj. "TVt

-IOJ-

A Room with a View

Emersons won't hear, and they wouldn't mind
they did."

Miss Lavish did not seem pleased at this.

"Miss Honeychurch listening!" she said rath
ciossly. "Poufl wouf! You naughty girl I
away I"

"Oh, Lucy, you ought to be with Mr. Eager, I'
sure."

"I can't find them now, and I don't want I
either."

"Mr. Eager will be offended. It is your party.

"Please, I'd rather stop here with you,"

"No, I agree," said Miss Lavish. "It's like
school feast; the boys have got separated from tl
girls. Miss Lucy, you are to go. We wish to co
verse on high topics unsuited for your ear."

The girl was stubborn. As her time at Floren

I drew to its close she was only at ease amongst tho
to whom she felt indifferent. Such a one was Mi
Lavish, and such for the moment was Chariot!
She wished she had not called attention to hersel
they were both annoyed at her remark and seenr
determined to get rid of her.

"How tired one gets," said Miss Bartlett. "O
I do wish Freddy and your mother could
here."

Unselfishness with Miss Bartlett had entire
usurped the functions of enthusiasm. Lucy did r»
look at the view either. She would not enjoy an
thing till she was safe at Rome.
-106-

A Drive

"Then sit you down," said Miss Lavish. "Ob-
serve my foresight."

With many a smile she produced two of those
mackintosh squares that protect the frame of the
tourist from damp grass or cold marble steps.
She sat on one; who was to sit on the other?

"Lucy; without a moment's doubt, Lucy. The
ground will do for me. Really I have not had
rheumatism for years. If I do feel it coming on I
shall stand. Imagine your mother's feelings if I
let you sit in the wet in your white linen." She
sat down heavily where the ground looked particu-
larly moist. "Here we are, all settled delightfully.
Even if my dress is thinner it will not show so
much, being brown. Sit down, dear; you are too
unselfish; you don't assert yourself enough." She
cleared her throat. "Now don't be alarmed; this
isn't a cold. It's the tiniest cough, and I have had
it three days. It's nothing to do with sitting here
at all."

There was only one way of treating the situation.
At the end of five minutes Lucy departed in search
of Mr. Beebe and Mr. Eager, vanquished by the
mackintosh square.

She addressed herself to the drivers, who were
sprawling in the carriages, perfuming the cushions
ith cigars. The miscreant, a bony young man
:orched black by the sun, rose to greet her with
le courtesy of a host and the assurance of a
lative.

107-

A Room with a View

"Dove?" said Lucy, after much anxious though

His face lit up. Of course he knew when
Not so far cither. His arm swept three-fourth
of the horizon. He should just think he did knoi
where. He pressed his finger-tips to his forehea
and then pushed them towards her, as if oozin
with visible extract of knowledge.

More seemed necessary. What was the Italia,
for "clergyman"?

"Dove buoni uomini ?" said she at last.

Good? Scarcely the adjective for those nobl
beings I He showed her his cigar.

"Uno — piu — piccolo,*' was her next remark, im
plying "Has the cigar been given to you by Mr
Beebe, the smaller of the two good men?"

She was correct as usual. He tied the horse t(
a tree, kicked it to make it stay quiet, dusted thi
carriage, arranged his hair, remoulded his hat
encouraged his moustache, and in rather less thai
a quarter of a minute was ready to conduct hef
Italians are born knowing the way. It would seefl
that the whole earth lay before them, not as
map, but as a chess-board, whereon they continual)
behold the changing pieces as well as the square 1
Any one can find places, but the finding of peop!
is a gift from God.

He only stopped once, to pick her some gre*

blue violets. She thanked him with real pleasur

In the company of this common man the woH

was beautiful and direct. For the first time 9&

-108-

A Drive

felt the influence of Spring. His arm swept the
horizon gracefully; violets, like other things, ex-
isted in great profusion there; would she like to
see them?

"Ma buoni uomini."

He bowed. Certainly. Good men first, violets
afterwards. They proceeded briskly through the
undergrowth, which became thicker and thicker.
They were nearing the edge of the promontory,
and the view was stealing round them, but the
brown network of the bushes shattered it into count-
less pieces. He was occupied in his cigar, and in
holding back the pliant boughs. She was rejoicing
in her escape from dullness. Not a step, not a
twig, was unimportant to her.

"What is that?"

There was a voice in the wood, in the distance
behind them. The voice of Mr. Eager? He
shrugged his shoulders. An Italian's ignorance is
sometimes more remarkable than his knowledge.
She could not make him understand that perhaps
they had missed the clergymen. The view was
forming at last; she could discern the river, the
golden plain, other hills.

"Eccolo!" he exclaimed.

At the same moment the ground gave way, and
with a cry she fell out of the wood. Light and
beauty enveloped her. She had fallen on to a
little open terrace, which was covered with violets
end to end.

-109-

A Room with a View

"Courage!" cried her companion, now standing
some six feet above. "Courage and love."

She did not answer. From her feet the ground
sloped sharply into view, and violets ran down in
rivulets and streams and cataracts, irrigating the
hillside with blue, eddying round the tree stems,
collecting into pools in the hollows, covering the
grass with spots of azure foam. But never again
were they in such profusion; this terrace was the
well-head, the primal source whence beauty gushed
out to water the earth.

Standing at its brink, like a swimmer who pre-
pares, was the good man. But he was not the good
man that she had expected, and he was alone.

George had turned at the sound of her arrival.
For a moment he contemplated her, as one who
had fallen out of heaven. He saw radiant joy in.
her face, he saw the flowers beat against her dress
in blue waves. The bushes above them closed.
He stepped quickly forward and kissed her. >

Before she could speak, almost before she could
feel, a voice called, "Lucy! Lucy! Lucy!" The
silence of life had been broken by Miss Bartlett,
who stood brown against the view.

Chapter VII: They Return

SOME complicated game had been playing up
and down the hillside all the afternoon.
What it was and exactly how the players
lad sided, Lucy was slow to discover. Mr. Eager
lad met them with a questioning eye. Charlotte
tad repulsed him with much small talk. Mr.
imerson, seeking his son, was told whereabouts to
ind him. Mr. Beebe, who wore the heated aspect
if a neutral, was bidden to collect the factions for
the return home. There was a general sense of
poping and bewilderment. Pan had been amongst '
ftem — not the great god Pan, who has been buried
iese two thousand years, but the little god Pan,
"io presides over social contretemps and unsuc-
Itessful picnics. Mr. Beebe had lost every one, and
consumed in solitude the tea-basket which he
brought up as a pleasant surprise. Miss Lav-
had lost Miss Bartlett. Lucy had lost Mr.
Mr. Emerson had lost George. Miss
irtktt had lost a mackintosh square. Phaethon
lost the game. A

That last fact was undeniable. He climbed on
the box shivering, with his collar up, prophesy-
Jthe swift approach of bad weather.
'Let us go immediately," he told them. "T f " "
porino will walk."

-Hi-

A Room with a View

"All the way? He wilt be hours," said Mr.
Beebe.

"Apparently. I told him it was unwise." He
would look no one in the face; perhaps defeat was
particularly mortifying for him. He alone had
played skilfully, using the whole of his instinct,
while the others had used scraps of their intelli-
j gence. He alone had divined what things were,
i and what he wished them to be. He alone had
I interpreted the message that Lucy had received
I five days before from the lips of a dying man.
I Persephone, who spends half her life in the grave —
she could interpret it also. Not so these English.
They gain knowledge slowly, and perhaps too late.
The thoughts of a cab-driver, however just, sel-
dom affect the lives of his employers. He was the
most competent of Miss Bartlett's opponents, but
infinitely the least dangerous. Once back in the
town, he and his insight and his knowledge would
trouble English ladies no more. Of course, it was
most unpleasant; she had seen his black head in
the bushes; he might make a tavern story out of it.
But after all, what have we to do with taverns?
—Real menace belongs to the drawing-room. It was
of drawing-room people that Miss Bartlett thought
as she journeyed downwards towards the fading
sun. Lucy sat beside her; Mr. Eager sat opposite,
trying to catch her eye; he was vaguely suspicious.
They spoke of Alessio Baldovinetti.

Rain and darkness came on together. The two
-in-

They Return

ladies huddled together under an inadequate par-
asol. There was a lightning flash, and Miss Lav-
ish, who was nervous, screamed from the carriage
in front. At the next flash, Lucy screamed also.
Mr. Eager addressed her professionally:

"Courage, Miss Honeychurch, courage and faith.
If I might say so, there is something almost blas-
phemous in this horror of the elements. Are we
seriously to suppose that all these clouds, all this
immense electrical display, is simply called into ex-
istence to extinguish you or me?"

"No— of course — "

"Even from the scientific standpoint the chances
against our being struck are enormous. The steel
knives, the only articles which might attract the
current, are in the other carriage. And, in any
case, we are infinitely safer than if we were walk-
ing. Courage — courage and faith."

Under the rug, Lucy felt the kindly pressure
of her cousin's hand. At times our need for a
sympathetic gesture is so great that we care not
what exactly it signifies or how much we may have
to pay for it afterwards. Miss Bartlett, by this
timely exercise of her muscles, gained more than
she would have got in hours of preaching or cross-
examination.

She renewed it when the two carriages stopped,
half into -Florence.

"Mr. Eager I" called Mr. Beebe. "We wan*
your assistance. Will you interpret tor \»"
-113-

A Room with a View

"George!" cried Mr. Emerson. "Ask your
driver which way George went. The boy may lose
his way. He may be killed."

"Go, Mr. Eager," said Miss Bartlett. "No,
don't ask our driver; our driver is no help. Go
and support poor Mr. Beebe; he is nearly de-
mented."

"He may be killed I" cried the old man. "He
may be killed!"

"Typical behaviour," said the chaplain, as he
quitted the carriage. "In the presence of reality
that kind of person invariably breaks down."

"What does he know?" whispered Lucy as soon
as they were alone. "Charlotte, how much does
Mr. Eager know?"

"Nothing, dearest; he knows nothing. But — "
she pointed at the driver — "he knows everything.
Dearest, had we better? Shall I?" She took out
her purse. "It is dreadful to be entangled with
low-class people. He saw it all." Tapping Phae-
thon's back with her guide-book, she said, "Silen-
210 1" and offered him a franc.

"Va bene," he replied, and accepted it. As well
this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal
maid, was disappointed in him.

There was an explosion up the road. The storm
had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and
one of the great supports had fallen. If they had I
not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt.
They chose to regard it as a miraculous preserva- '
-HA- :

They Return

tion, and the floods of love and sincerity, which
fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult.
They descended from the carriages; they embraced
each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past
unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment
they realized vast possibilities of good.

The older people recovered quickly. In the very
height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly
or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even
if they had continued, they would not have been
caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a
temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles
of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the
dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to
her cousin.

"Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me
again. Only you'ean understand me. You warned
me to be careful. And I — I thought I was devel-
oping."

"Do not cry, dearest. Take your time."

"I have been obstinate and silly — worse than you
know, far worse. Once by the river — Oh, but he
isn't killed — he wouldn't be killed, would he?"

The thought disturbed her repentance. As a
matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road ;
but she had been near danger, and so she thought
it must be near to every one.

"I trust not. One would always pray against
that."

"He is really — I think he was taken \>^ &VC1 "
-115-

A Room with a View

just as I was before. But this time I'm not to
blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped
into those violets. No, I want to be really truth-
ful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts.
The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all
blue, and for a moment he looked like some one
in a book."

"In a book?"

"Heroes — gods — the nonsense of schoolgirls."

"And then?"

"But, Charlotte, you know what happened then."

Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little
more to learn. With a certain amount of insight
she drew her young cousin affectionately to her.
All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep
sighs, which nothing could repress.

"I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is
so hard to be absolutely truthful."

"Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are
calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in
my room."

So they re-entered the city with hands clasped-
It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion
had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased, and
Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe
had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was
already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone
she was sure of — Charlotte, whose exterior con-
cealed so much insight and love.

The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost
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happy through the long evening. She thought not
so much of what had happened as of how she should
describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of
courage, for moments of unreasonable joy, her
mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid be-
fore her cousin. And together in divine confidence
they would disentangle and interpret them all.

"At last," thought she, "I shall understand my-
self. I shan't again be troubled by things that
come out of nothing, and mean I don't know
what."

Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused
vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment
of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with
commendable patience, was listening to a long story
about lost luggage. When it was over she capped
it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather
hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to
check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It
was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had re-
covered her luggage and could say in her usual tone
of gentle reproach: "Well, dear, I at all events
am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room,
and I will give a good brush to your hair."

With some solemnity the door was shut, and a
cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett
said :

"So what is to be done?"

She was unprepared for the question. It hid
not occurred to her that she would Wt to
\ -"7-

A Room with a View

anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions
was all that she had counted upon.

"What is to be done? A point, dearest, which
you alone can settle."

The rain was streaming down the black win-
dows, and the great room felt damp and chilly.
One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers
close to Miss Barttett's toque, which cast monstrous
and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram
roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably
sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She
lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and
bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts
of joy.

"It has been raining for nearly four hours," she
said at last.

Miss Bartlett ignored the remark.

"How do you propose to silence him?"

"The driver?"

"My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson."

Lucy began to pace up and down the room.

"I don't understand," she said at last.

She understood very well, but she no longer
wished to be absolutely truthful.

"How are you going to stop him talking about

it?"

"I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will
never do."

"I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But

They Return

unfortunately I have met the type before. They
seldom keep their exploits to themselves."

"Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the hor-
rible plural.

"My poor dear, did you suppose that this was
his first? Come here and listen to me. I am
only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you
remember that day at lunch when he argued with
Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason
for liking another?"

"Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argu-
ment had pleased.

"Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call
him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thor-
oughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplor-
able antecedents and education, if you wish. But
we are no farther on with our question. What do
you propose to do?"

An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had
she thought of it sooner and made it part of her,
might have proved victorious.

"I propose to speak to him," said she.

Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm.

"You see, Charlotte, your kindness — I shall never
forget it. But — as you said — it is my affair.
Mine and his."

"And you are going to implore him, to beg him
to keep silence?"

"Certainly not. There would be no dlfetokvj.
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A Room with a View

Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then
it is over. I have been frightened of him. But
now I am not one little bit."

"But we fear him for you, dear. You are so
young and inexperienced, you have lived among such
nice people, that you cannot realize what men can
be — how they can take a brutal pleasure in in-
sulting a woman whom her sex does not protect
and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I
had not arrived, what would have happened?"

"I can't think," said Lury gravely.

Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett re-
peat her question, intoning it more vigorously.

"What would have happened if I hadn't ar-
rived?"

"I can't think," said Lucy again.

"When he insulted you, how would you have re-
plied?"

"I hadn't time to think. You came."

"Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would
have done?"

"I should have — " She checked herself, and
broke the sentence off. She went up to the drip-
ping window and strained her eyes into the dark-
ness. She could not think what she would have
done.

"Come away from the window, dear," said Miss
Bartlett. "You will be seen from the road."

Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power.
She could not modulate out the key of self-abase-
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They Return

mcnt in which she had started. Neither of them
referred again to her suggestion that she should
speak to George and settle the matter, whatever
it was, with him.

Miss Bartlett became plaintive.

"Oh, for a real man I We are only two women,
you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr.
Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your
brother I He is young, but I know that his sister's
insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank
God, chivalry is riot yet dead. There are still left
some men who can reverence woman."

As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which
she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin-
cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said:

"It will be a push to catch the morning train,
but we must try."

"What train?"

"The train to Rome." She looked at her glove*
critically.

The girl received the announcement as easily as
it had been given.

"When docs the train to Rome go?"

"At eight."

"Signora Bertolini would be upset."

"We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not
liking to say that she had given notice already.

"She will make us pay for a whole week's pen-
sion."

"I expect she will. However, we s\ia.\Y\je yew*

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A Room with a View

more comfortable at the Vyses' hotel. Isn't after-
noon tea given there for nothing?"

"Yes, but they pay extra for wine."

After this remark she remained motionless and
silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and
swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream.

They began to sort their clothes for packing,
for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch
the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, be-
gan to move to and fro between the rooms, more
conscious of the discomforts of packing by candle-
light than of a subtler ill. Charlotte, who was
practical without ability, knelt by the side of an
empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with
books of varying thickness and size. She gave two
or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her
back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she
was growing old. The girl heard her as she entered
the room, and was .seized with one of those
emotional impulses to which she could never attri-
bute a cause. She only felt that the candle would
burn better, the packing go easier, the world be
happier, if she could give and receive some human
love. The impulse had come before to-day, but
never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's
side and took her in her arms.

Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tender-
ness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman,
and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not
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They Return

love her, but needed her to love. For it was in
ominous tones that she said, after a long pause:

"Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?"

Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by
bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett
meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her
embrace a little, and she said:

"Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I
I have anything to forgive!"

"You have a great deal, and I have a very great
, deal to forgive myself, too. I know well how much
I vex you at every turn."

"But no — "

Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that\
of the prematurely aged martyr. /

"Ah, but yesl I feel that our tour together
I is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have
known it would not do. You want some one
younger and stronger and more in sympathy with
you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned —
only fit to pack and unpack your things."

"Please—"

"My only consolation was that you found people
more to your taste, and were often able to leave
me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what
a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict
them on you more than was necessary. You had
your own way about these rooms, at all events."

"You mustn't say these things," said Lucj «>W^.
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A Room with a View

She still clung to the hope that she and Char-
lotte loved each other, heart and soul. They con-
tinued to pack in silence.

"I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as
she struggled with the straps of Lucy's trunk in-
stead of strapping her own. "Failed to make you
happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She
has been so generous to me; I shall never face her
again after this disaster."

"But mother will understand. It is not your
fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either."

"It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never
forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right
had I to make friends with Miss Lavish ?"

"Every right."

"When I was here for your sake? If I have
vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected
you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do,
when you tell her."

Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the
situation, said:

"Why need mother hear of it?"

"But you tell her everything?"

"I suppose I do generally."

"I dare not break your confidence. There is some-
thing sacred in it. Unless you feel that it is a thing :
you could not tell her." .

The girl would not be degraded to this.

"Naturally I should have told her. But in case .
she should blame you in any way, I promise I will .
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They Return

not. I am very willing not to. I will never speak
of it either to her or to any one."

Her promise brought the long-drawn interview
to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly
on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her
to her own room.

For a moment the original trouble was in the
background. George would seem to have behaved
tike a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view
which one would take eventually. At present she
neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not
pass judgment. At the moment when she was about
to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and,
ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated;
Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sigh-
ing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett,
who had really been neither pliable nor humble
nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great
artist; for a time — indeed, for years — she had been
meaningless, but at the end there was presented
to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, love-
less world in which the young rush to destruction
until they learn better — a shamefaced world of
precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but
which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge
from those who have used them most.

Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong

which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic

advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of tv«

craving for sympathy and love. Such a, "mem - "

-125-

A Room with a View

' not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose
i herself without due consideration and precaution
against rebuflf. And such a wrong may react dis-
\ astrousty upon the soul.

The door-bell rang, and she started to the shut-
ters. Before she reached them she hesitated,
turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that,
though she saw some one standing in the wet be-
low, he, though he looked up, did not see her.

To reach his room he had to go by hers. She
was still dressed. It struck her that she might
slip into the passage and just say that she would
be gone before he was up, and that their extra-
ordinary intercourse was over.

Whether she would have dared to do this was
never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bart-
lett opened her own door, and her voice said :

"I wish one word with you in the drawing-room,
Mr. Emerson, please."

Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bart-
lett said: "Good-night, Mr. Emerson."

His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply;
the chaperon had done her work.

Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all
I be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to
I grow older quickly."

Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall.

"Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the
rest you can get."

In the morning they left for Rome.
—1 16-

Part Two

Chapter VIII: Mediaeval

THE drawing-room curtains at Windy
Corner had been pulled to meet, for the
carpet was new and deserved protection
from the August sun. They were heavy curtains,
reaching almost to the ground, and the light that
filtered through them was subdued and varied. A
poet — none was present — might have quoted, "Life
like a dome of many coloured glass," or might have
compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered
against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without
was poured a sea of radiance; within, the glory,
though visible, was tempered to the capacities of
man.

Two pleasant people sat in the room. One —
*boy of nineteen — was studying a small manual of
anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which
by upon the piano. From time to time he bounced
in his chair and puffed and groaned, for the day
•as hot and the print small, and the human frame
fearfully made; and his mother, who was writing
'letter, did continually read out to him what she
wd written. And continually did she rise from
to seat and part the curtains so that a rivulet of
*ght fell across the carpet, and make the remark
vt they were still there.

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A Room with a View

"Where aren't they?" said the boy, who was
Freddy, Lucy's brother. "I tell you I'm getting
fairly sick."

"For goodness' sake go out of my drawing-room,
then?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, who hoped to cure
her children of slang by taking it literally.

Freddy did not move or reply.

"I think things are coming to a head," she ob-
served, rather wanting her son's opinion on the
situation if she could obtain it without undue sup-
plication.

"Time they did."

"I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once
more."

"It's his third go, isn't it?"

"Freddy I do call the way you talk unkind."

"I didn't mean to be unkind." Then he added:
"But I do think Lucy might have got this off her
chest in Italy. I don't know how girls manage
things, but she can't have said 'No' properly be-
fore, or she wouldn't have to say it again now.
Over the whole thing — I can't explain — I do fed
so uncomfortable."

"Do you indeed, dear? How interesting!"

"I feel — never mind."

He returned to his work.

"Just listen to what I have written to Mrs. Vyse.
I said: 'Dear Mrs. Vyse' — "

"Yes, mother, you told me. A jolly good letter."
-130-

Mediaeval

"I said : 'Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked
my permission about it, and I should be delighted,
if Lucy wishes it. But — ' " She stopped read-
ing. "I was rather amused at Cecil asking my per-
mission at all. He has always gone in for uncon-
vcntionality, and parents nowhere, and so forth.
When it comes to the point, he can't get on with-
out me."

"Nor me."

"You?"

Freddy nodded.

"What do you mean ?"

"He asked me for my permission also."

She exclaimed: "How very odd of him!"

"Why so?" asked the son and heir. "Why
shouldn't my permission be asked?"

"What do you know about Lucy or girls or any-
thing? What ever did you say?"

"I said to Cecil, 'Take her or leave her; it's no
business of mine !' "

"What a helpful answer!" But her own answer,
though more normal in its wording, had been to
the same effect.

"The bother is this," began Freddy.

Then he took up his work again, too shy to say
what the bother was. Mrs. Honeychurch went
back to the window.

"Freddy, you must come. There they still
ire!"

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A Room with a View

''I don't sec you ought to go peeping like that."

"Peeping like that I Can't I look out of my
*/wn window?"

But she returned to the writing-table, observing,
as she passed her son, "Still page 322?" Freddy
snorted, and turned over two leaves. For a brief
space they were silent. Close by, beyond the cur-
tains, the gentle murmur of a long conversation
had never ceased.

"The bother is this: I have put my foot in it
with Cecil most awfully." He gave a nervous
gulp. "Not content with 'permission,' which I did
give — that is to say, I said, 'I don't mind' — well,
not content with that, he wanted to know whether
I wasn't off my head with joy. He practically put
it like this: Wasn't it a splendid thing for Lucy
and for Windy Corner generally if he married her?
And he would have an answer — he said it would
strengthen his hand."

"I hope you gave a careful answer, dear."

"I answered 'No' " said the boy, grinding his
teeth. "There! Fly into a stew I I can't help
it — I had to say it. I had to say no. He ought
never to have asked me."

"Ridiculous child !" cried his mother. "You think
you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only
abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man '=
like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything *
you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare -
you say no ?"

-131-

Mediaeval

"Oh, do keep quiet, mother I I had to say no
when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I
didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too,
and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my
foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a
man do some work."

"No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of
one who has considered the subject, "I shall not
keep quiet. You know all that has passed between
them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and
yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him
out of my house."

"Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I
didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like
him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy."

He glanced at the curtains dismally.

"Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch.
"I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's
rich, he's well connected — Oh, you needn't kick
the piano! He's well connected — I'll say it again
if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as
if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dis-
satisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful
manne^."

"I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having
him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's
also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing."

"Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal
her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe coto»~
it."

-'33-

A Room with a View

v "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you
\ never quite know what he means. He said: 'Mr.
^Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' I was very cute. I
asked him what he meant. He said 'Oh, he's
like me — better detached.' I couldn't make him
say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil
has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at
least — I can't explain."
' ^"ou never can, dear. But I can. You are
jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting
you silk ties."

The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy
tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain
there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too
much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil
made one talk in one's own way. This tired one.
Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow
who would never wear another" fellow's cap. Un-
aware of his own profundity, Freddy checked him-
self. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike
__a man for such foolish reasons.

"Will this do?" called his mother. " 'Dear Mrs-
Vyse, — Cecil has just asked my permission about
it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wj^bes it.'
Then I put in at the top, 'and I have told Lucy so.'
I must write the letter out again — 'and I have told
Lucy so. But Lucy seems Very uncertain, and in
these days young people must decide for them-
selves.' I said that because I didn't want Mrs.
Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for

Mediseval

lectures and improving her mind, and all the time
a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid's
dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric
light. She keeps that flat abominably — "

"Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in
a flat, or in the country?"

"Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I?
Oh yes — 'Young people must decide for themselves.
I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells
me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome
when he asked her first.' No, I'll cross that last
bit out — it looks patronizing. I'll stop at 'because
she tells me everything.' Or shall I cross that out,
too?"

"Cross it out, too," said Freddy.

Mrs. Honeychurch left it in.

"Then the whole things runs : 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.
—Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and
I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have
told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and
in these days young people must decide for them-
selves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because
she tells me everything. But I do not know — ' "

"Look out I" cried Freddy.

The curtains parted.

Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He
couldn't bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in .
the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he '
gave the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging /
dawn their poles. Light entered. T\v«e tjsa t "

A Room with a View

vealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas,
with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic
seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured
by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built
on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald.
Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the
edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the
air above the tremulous world.

Cecil entered.

Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be

)at once described. He was mediaeval. Like a
Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders
that seemed braced square by an effort of the will,
and a head that was tilted a little higher than the
usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious
saints who guard the portals of a French cathe-
dral. Well educated, well endowed, and not de-
ficient physically, he remained in the grip of a cer-
tain devil whom the modern world knows as self-
consciousness, and whom the mediaeval, with dimmer
vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue
implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies
fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe
meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art,
perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine
Cecil wearing another fellow's cap.

Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing-
table and moved towards her young acquaintance.

"Oh, Cecil!" she exclaimed — "oh, Cecil, do tell
me}"

-136-

Mediaeval

"I promessi sposi," said he.

They stared at him anxiously.

"She has accepted me," he said, and the sound
of the thing in English made him flush and smile
with pleasure, and look more human.

"I am so glad," said Mrs. Honeychurch, while
Freddy proffered a hand that was yellow with chem-
icals. They wished that they also knew Italian,
for our phrases of approval and of amazement are
so connected with little occasions that we fear to
use them on great ones. We are obliged to become
vaguely poetic, or to take refuge in Scriptural rem-
iniscences.

"Welcome as one of the family!" said Mrs.
Honeychurch, waving her hand at the furniture.
"This is indeed a joyous day! I feel sure that you
will make our dear Lucy happy."

"I hope so," replied the young man, shifting his
eyes to the ceiling.

"We mothers — " simpered Mrs. Honeychurch,
and then realized that she was affected, sentimental,
bombastic — all the things she hated most. Why
could she not be Freddy, who stood stiff in the
middle of the room, looking very cross and almost
handsome ?

"I say, Lucy 1" called Cecil, for conversation
seemed to flag.

Lucy rose from the seat. She moved across the
lawn and smiled in at them, just as if she was.
going to ask them to play tennis. "TVimv Aw *
-137-

A Room with a View

her brother's face. Her lips parted, and she took
him in her arms. He said, "Steady on!"

"Not a kiss for me?" asked her mother.

Lucy kissed her also.

"Would you take them into the garden and tell
Mrs. Honeychurch all about it?" Cecil suggested.
"And I'd stop here and tell my mother."

"We go with Lucy?" said Freddy, as if taking
orders.

"Yes, you go with Lucy."

They passed into the sunlight. Cecil watched
them cross the terrace, and descend out of sight
by the steps. They would descend — he knew their
ways — past the shrubbery, and past the tennis-lawn
and the dahlia-bed, until they reached the kitchen-
garden, and there, in the presence of the potatoes
and the peas, the great event would be discussed.

Smiling indulgently, he lit a cigarette, and re-
hearsed the events that had led to such a happy
conclusion.

He had known Lucy for several years, but only
as a commonplace girl who happened to be musi-
cal. He could still remember his depression that
afternoon at Rome, when she and her terrible
cousin fell on him out of the blue, and demanded
to be taken to St. Peter's. That day she had
seemed a typical tourist — shrill, crude, and gaunt
} with travel. But Italy worked some marvel in her.
It gave her light, and — which he held more pre-
cious — it gave her shadow. Soon he detected in

-13*-

Mediaeval

her a wonderful reticence. She was like a woman I
of Leonardo da Vinci's, whom we love not so much f
for herself as for the things that she will not tell
us. The things are assuredly not of this life ; no i
woman of Leonardo's could have anything so vulgar \
as a "story." She did develop most wonderfully
day by day. i

So it happened that from patronizing civility
he had slowly passed if not to passion, at least to
a profound uneasiness. Already at Rome he had
hinted to her that they might be suitable for each
other. It had touched him greatly that she had
not broken away at the suggestion. Her refusal
had been clear and gentle; after it — as the horrid
phrase went — she had been exactly the same to
him as before. Three months later, on the margin
of Italy, among the flower-clad Alps, he had asked
her again in bald, traditional Language. She re-
minded him of a Leonardo more than ever; her
sunburnt features were shadowed by fantastic
rock; at' his words she had turned and stood be-
tween him and the light with immeasurable plains
behind her. He walked home with her unashamed,
feeling not at all like a rejected suitor. The things
that really mattered were unshaken.

So now he had asked her once more, and, clear
and gentle as ever, she had accepted him, giving no
coy reasons for her delay, but simply saying that
she loved him and would do her best to make him.
happy. His mother, too, would \se \>\.M&t^\ ■&*
-l 39 _

A Room with a View

had counselled the step; he must write her a long
account.

Glancing at his hand, in case any of Freddy's
chemicals had come off on it, he moved to the
writing table. There he saw "Dear Mrs. Vyse,"
followed by many erasures. He recoiled without
reading any more, and after a little hesitation
sat down elsewhere, and pencilled a note on his
knee.

Then he lit another cigarette, which did not seem
quite as divine as the first, and considered what
might be done to make Windy Corner drawing-
room more distinctive. With that outlook it should
have been a successful room, but the trail of Tot-
tenham Court Road was upon it; he could almost
visualize the motor-vans of Messrs. Shoolbred and
Messrs. Maple arriving at the door and deposit-
ing this chair, those varnished book-cases, that writ-
ing-table. The table recalled Mrs. Honeychurch's
letter. He did not want to read that letter — his
temptations never lay in that direction ; but he
worried about it none the less. It was his own
fault that she was discussing him with his mother;
he had wanted her support in his third attempt to
win Lucy; he wanted to feel that others, no matter
who they were, agreed with him, and so he had
asked their permission. Mrs. Honeychurch had
been civil, but obtuse in essentials, while as for
Freddy —

"He is only a boy," he reflected. "I represent
-140-

Mediaeval

all that he despises. Why should he want me for
a brother-in-law?"

The Honeychurches were a worthy family, but
he began to realize that Lucy was of another clay;
and perhaps — he did not put it very definitely —
he ought to introduce her into more congenial
circles as soon as possible.

"Mr. Beebel" said the maid, and the new rector
of Summer Street was shown in; he had at once
started on friendly relations, owing to Lucy's praise
of him in her letters from Florence.
Cecil greeted him rather critically.
"I've come for tea, Mr. Vyse. Do you suppose
that I shall get it?"

"I should say so. Food is the thing one does
get here — Don't sit in that chair; young Honey-
church has left a bone in it."
"Pfuil"

"I know," said Cecil. "I know. I can't think
why Mrs. Honeychurch allows it."

For Cecil considered the bone and the Maples'
furniture separately; he did not realize that, taken\
together, they kindled the room into the life th^jr
he desired.

"I've come for tea and for gossip. Isn't this
news ?"

"News? I don't understand you," said Cecil.
"News?"

Mr. Beebe, whose news was of a very dvftttw*
nature, prattled forward.

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A Room with a View

"I met Sir Harry Otway as I came up; I have
every reason to hope that I am first in the field.
He has bought Cissie and Albert from Mr. Flack!"

"Has he indeed?" said Cecil, trying to recover
himself. Into what a grotesque mistake had he
fallen! Was it likely that a clergyman and a
gentleman would refer to his engagement in a
manner so flippant? But his stiffness remained,
and, though he asked who Cissie and Albert might
be, he still thought Mr. Beebe rather a bounder.

"Unpardonable question! To have stopped a
week at Windy Corner and not to have met Cissie
and Albert, the semi-detached villas that have been
run up opposite the church I I'll set Mrs. Honey-
church after you."

"I'm shockingly stupid over local affairs," said
the young man languidly. "I can't even remember
the difference between a Parish Council and a Local
Government Board. Perhaps there is no differ-
ence, or perhaps those aren't the right names. I
only go into the country to see my friends and to
enjoy the scenery. It is very remiss of me. Italy
and London are the only places where I don't feel
to exist on sufferance."

Mr. Beebe, distressed at this heavy reception of
Cissie and Albert, determined to shift the subject.

"Let me see, Mr. Vyse — I forget — what is yonr
profession?"

"I have no profession," said Cecil. "It is an-
ofher example of my decadence. My attitude —
-14*-

Mediaeval

quite an indefensible one — is that so long as I am .
no trouble to any one I have a right to do as I
like. I know I ought to be getting money out of
people, or devoting myself to things I don't care
a straw about, but somehow, I've not been able
to begin."

"You are very fortunate," said Mr. Beebe.
"It is a wonderful opportunity, the possession of
leisure."

His voice was rather parochial, but he did not
quite see his way to answering naturally. He felt,
as all who have regular occupation must feel, that
others should have it also.

"I am glad that you approve. I daren't face
the healthy person — for example, Freddy Honey-
church."

"Oh, Freddy's a good sort, isn't he?"

"Admirable. The sort who has made England
what she is."

Cecil wondered at himself. Why, on this day
of all others, was he so hopelessly contrary? He
tried to get right by inquiring effusively after Mr.
fieebe's mother, an old lady for whom he had no
particular regard. Then he Mattered the clergy-
man, praised his liberal-mindedness, his enlightened
attitude towards philosophy and science.

"Where are the others?" said Mr. Beebe at
last. "I insist on extracting tea before evening
service."

"I suppose Anne never told them 70M ■w«t\v»"
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A Room with a View

In this house one is so coached in the servants the
day one arrives. The fault of Anne is that she
begs your pardon when she hears you perfectly, and
kicks the chair-legs with her feet The faults of
Mary — I forget the faults of Mary, but they are
very grave. Shall we look in the garden?"

"I know the faults of Mary. She leaves the
dust-pans standing on the stairs."

"The fault of Euphcmia is that she will not,
simply will not, chop the suet sufficiently small."
They both laughed, and things began to go
better.

"The faults of Freddy — " Cecil continued.
"Ah, he has too many. No one but his mother
can remember the faults of Freddy. Try the
faults of Miss Honeychurch; they are not innumer-
able."

"She has none," said the young man, with grave
sincerity.

"I quite agree. At present she has none."
"At present?"

"I'm not cynical. I'm only thinking of my pet
| theory about Miss Honeychurch. Does it seem
i reasonable that she should play so wonderfully, and
: live so quietly? I suspect that one day she will
: be wonderful in both. The water-tight compart-
j ments in her will break down, and music and life
| will mingle. Then we shall have her heroically
J good, heroically bad — too heroic, perhaps, to be
j good or bad."

Mediaeval

Cecil found his companion Interesting.
"And at present you think her not wonderful
is far as life goes?"

"Well, I must say I've only seen her at Tun-
sridge Wells, where she was not wonderful, and
it Florence. Since I came to Summer Street she
has been away. You saw her, didn't you, at Rome
and in the Alps. Oh, I forgot; of course, you
knew her before. No, she wasn't wonderful in
Florence either, but I kept on expecting that she
would be."
"In what way?"

Conversation had become agreeable to them,
and they were pacing up and down the terrace.
"I could as easily tell you what tune she'll play
xt. There was simply the sense that she had
found wings, and meant to use them. I can show
you a beautiful picture in my Italian diary: Miss
Honeychurch as a kite, Miss Bartlett holding the
ttring. Picture number two: the string breaks."
The sketch was in his diary, but it had been made
afterwards, when he viewed things artistically. At
the time he had given surreptitious tugs to the
itring himself.
"But the string never broke?"
"No. I mightn't have seen Miss Honeychurch
Me, but I should certainly have heard Miss Bart-
fctt fall."

It has broken now," said the young man. m.
W, vibrating tones.

-145-

A Room with a View

Immediately he realized that of all the conceited
ludicrous, contemptible ways of announcing an en-
gagement this was the worst. He cursed his love
of metaphor; had he suggested that he was a star
and that Lucy was soaring up to reach him?

"Broken? What do you mean?"

"I meant," said Cecil stiffly, "that she is going
to marry me."

The clergyman was conscious of some bitter dis-
appointment; which he could not keep out of his
voice.

"I am sorry; I must apologize. I had no idea
you were intimate with her, or I should never have
talked in this flippant, superficial way. Mr. Vyse,
you ought to have stopped me." And down the
garden he saw Lucy herself; yes, he was disap-
pointed.

Cecil, who naturally preferred congratulations to
apologies, drew down his mouth at the corners.
Was this the reception his action would get from
the world ? Of course, he despised the world as a
whole; every thoughtful man should; it is almosl
a test of refinement. But he was sensitive to the
successive particles of it which he encountered.

Occasionally he could be quite crude.

"I am sorry I have given you a shock," he said
dryly. "I fear that Lucy's choice does not meel
with your approval."

"Not that. But you ought to have stopped me
/ know Miss Honeychurch only a little as timi

Mediaeval

goes. Perhaps I oughtn't to have discussed her
so freely with any one; certainly not with you."

"You are conscious of having said something in-
discreet?"

Mr. Beebe pulled himself together. Really,
Mr. Vyse had the art of placing one in the most
tiresome positions. He was driven to use the pre-
rogatives of his profession.

"No, I have said nothing Indiscreet. I foresaw
at Florence that her quiet, uneventful childhood
must end, and it has ended. I realized dimly
enough that she might take some momentous step.
She has taken it. She has learnt — you will let
me talk freely, as I have begun freely — she has
learnt what it is to love: the greatest lesson, some
people will tell you, that our earthly life provides."
It was now time for him to wave his hat at the
approaching trio. He did not omit to do so.
"She has learnt through you," and if his voice
was still clerical, it was now also sincere; "let it
be your care that her knowledge is profitable to
her."

"Grazie tante!" said Cecil, who did not like
parsons.

"Have you heard?" shouted Mrs. Honeychurch
as she toiled up the sloping garden. "Oh, Mr.
Beebe, have you heard the news?"

Freddy, now full of geniality, whistled the wed-
ding march. Youth seldom criticizes the accom-
fact.

147-

A Room with a View

"Indeed I have 1" he cried. He looked at Lucy.
In her presence he could not act the parson any
longer — at all events not without apology. "Mrs.
Honeychurch, I'm going to do what I am always
supposed to do, but generally I'm too shy. I want
to invoke every kind of blessing on them, grave
and gay, great and small. I want them all their
lives to be supremely good and supremely happy
as husband and wife, as father and mother. And
now I want my tea."

"You only asked for it just in time," the lady
retorted. "How dare you be serious at Windy
Corner?"

He took his tone from her. There was no more;
heavy beneficence, no more attempts to dignify
the situation with poetry or the Scriptures. None
of them dared or was able to be serious any more.

An engagement is so potent a thing that sooner
or later it reduces all who speak of it to this state :
of cheerful awe. Away from it, in the solitude of
their rooms, Mr. Beebe, and even Freddy, might
again be critical. But in its presence and in the
presence of each other they were sincerely hilarious.
It has a strange power, for it compels not only
the lips, but the very heart. The chief parallel —
to compare one great thing with another — is the
power over us of a temple of some alien creed.
Standing outside, we deride or oppose it, or at the
most feel sentimental. Inside, though the saints

Mediaeval

and gods arc not ours, we become true believers,
in case any true believer should be present.

So tt was that after the gropings and the mis-
givings of the afternoon they pulled themselves
together and settled down to a very pleasant tea-
party. If they were hypocrites they did not know 1
it, and their hypocrisy had every chance of setting
and of becoming true. Anne, putting down each \
plate as if it were a wedding present, stimulated
them greatly. They could not lag behind that
smile of hers which she gave them ere she kicked
the drawing-room door. 'Mr. Beebe chirruped.
Freddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as \
the "Fiasco" — family honoured pun on fiance. ^
Mrs. Honeychurch, amusing and portly, promised
well as a mother-in-law. As for Lucy and Cecil,
for whom the temple had been built, they also
joined in the merry ritual, but waited, as earnest
worshippers should, for the disclosure of some
feolier shrine of joy.

-149-

Chapter IX: Lucy as a Work of Art

A FEW days after the engagement was ai
nounced Mrs. Honeychurch made Lucy an
her Fiasco come to a little garden-party i
the neighbourhood, for naturally she wanted to sho
people that her daughter was marrying a presentab!
man.

Cecil was more than presentable; he looked di
tinguished, and it was very pleasant to see his slit
figure keeping step with Lucy, and his long, fai
face responding when Lucy spoke to him. Peop!
congratulated Mrs. Honeychurch, which is, I b>
licve, a social blunder, but it pleased her, and sh
introduced Cecil rather indiscriminately to sort
stuffy dowagers.

At tea a misfortune took place: a cup of coff"
was upset over Lucy's figured silk, and though Lu<
feigned indifference, her mother feigned nothing »
the sort but dragged her indoors to have the fro*
treated by a sympathetic maid. They were goi
some time, and Cecil was left with the dowagel
When they returned he was not as pleasant as 1
had been.

"Do you go to much of this sort of thing?" 1
asked when they were driving home.

Lucy As a Work of Art

"Oh, now and then," said Lucy, who had rather
enjoyed herself.

"Is it typical of country society?"
"I suppose so. Mother, would it be?"
"Plenty of society," said Mrs. Honeychurch, who
was trying to remember the hang of one of the
dresses.

Seeing that her thoughts were elsewhere, Cecil
bent towards Lucy and said:

"To me it seemed perfectly appalling, disastrous,
portentous."

"I am so sorry that you were stranded."
"Not that, but the congratulations. It is so dis-
gusting, the way an engagement is regarded as
Miblic property — a kind of waste place where every
outsider may shoot his vulgar sentiment. All those
old women smirking!"

"One has to go through it, I suppose. They
won't notice us so much next time."

"But my point is that their whole attitude is
wrong. An engagement — horrid word in the first
ilace — is a private matter, and should be treated as
iuch."

Yet the smirking old women, however wrong in-
dividually, were racially correct. The spirit of the
generations had smiled through them, rejoicing in
the engagement of Cecil and Lucy because it
iromised the continuance of life on earth. To
Tecil and Lucy it promised something quite different
51-

"

A Room with a View

— personal love. Hence Cecil's irritation and
Lucy's belief that his irritation was just.

"How tiresome I" she said. "Couldn't you have
escaped to tennis?"

"I don't play tennis — at least, not in public.
The neighbourhood is deprived of the romance ol
me being athletic. Such romance as I have is that
of the Inglese Italianato."

"Inglese Italianato?"

"E un diavolo incarnato! You know th*
proverb?"

She did not. Nor did it seem applicable to ■

young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rom*

with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement

had taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtinest

N which he was far from possessing.

"Well," said he, "I cannot help it if they d(
disapprove of me. There are certain trremovabl.
barriers between myself and them, and I mm,.
accept them."

"We all have our limitations, I suppose," sair
wise Lucy.

"Sometimes they are forced on us, though," sal"
Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did ne
quite understand his position.

"How?"

"It makes a difference doesn't it, whether *
fence ourselves in, or whether we arc fenced o*
by the barriers of others?"
-152-

Lucy As a Work of Art

She thought a moment, and agreed that it did
make a difference.

"Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly
alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are
fences, especially when they are in the same place."

"We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on
whom the interruption jarred.

"My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her
knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This
is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the
pattern is the other people. Motives are all very
well, but the fence comes here."

"We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy,
laughing.

"Oh, I see, dear — poetry."

She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why
Lucy had been amused.

I tell you who has no 'fences,' as you call them,"
she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe."

"A parson fenceless would mean a parson de-
fenceless."

Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but
» quick enough to detect what they meant. She
iifmissed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that
(prompted it.

I "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thought-
' hilly.

"I never said sol" he cried. "I consider him far
ibove the average. I only denied — " And he sweot
-IS3-

A Room with a View

off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant.

"Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she,
wanting to say something sympathetic, "a clergyman
that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones,
is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence.
He was truly insincere — not merely the manner un-
fortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and
he did say such unkind things."

"What sort of things?"

"There was an old man at the Bertolini whom
he said had murdered his wife."

"Perhaps he had."

"No I"

"Why 'no'?"

"He was such a nice old man, I'm sure."

Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence.

"Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager
would never come to the point. He prefers it
vague — said the old man had 'practically' murdered
his wife — had murdered her in the sight of God."

"Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absendy.

"But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're
told to imitate should go round spreading slander?
It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old
man was dropped. People pretended he waJ
vulgar, but he certainly wasn't that."

"Poor old man! What was his name?"

"Harris," said Lucy glibly.

"Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn'
sich person," said her mother.
-IS4-

t no I

Lucy As a Work of Art

Cecil nodded intelligently.
Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?"
he asked.

I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lec-
ture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a
petty nature. I hale him."

"My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs.
Honeychurch. "You'll blow my head off! What-
ever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil
to hate any more clergymen."

He smiled. There was indeed something rather
incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr.
Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo
on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint
(o her that not here lay her vocation; that a wo-
man's power and charm reside in mystery, not in
muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vital-
ity: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that
she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her
flushed face and excited gestures with a certain
pproval. He forebore to repress the sources of
youth.

Nature — simplest of topics, he thought — lay
around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep
lakes of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted
the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turn-
pike road. The outdoor world was not very fam-
iliar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in
a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth
155-

A Room with a View

twitched when he spoke of the perpetual gre
of the larch.

"I count myself a lucky person," he conclude
"When I'm in London I feel I could never live o
of it. When I'm in the country I feel the sar
about the country. After all, I do believe th
birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderf
things in life, and that the people who live among
them must be the best. It's true that in nine cas
out of ten they don't seem to notice anything. Tl
country gentleman and the country labourer a
each in their way the most depressing of compa
ions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy wi
the workings of Nature which is denied to us i
the town. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurchi

Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She hi
not been attending. Cecil, who was rather crushi
on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, ai
determined not to say anything interesting again

Lucy had not attended either. Her brow w
wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross — tl
result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastic
It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauti
of an August wood.

" 'Come down, O maid, from yonder mounta
height,' " he quoted, and touched her knee with b
own.

She flushed again and said: "What height!

" 'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,
What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang),

-156-

Lucy As a Work of Art

In height and in the splendour of the hills?'

Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate
clergymen no more. What's this place?"

"Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and
roused herself.

The woods had opened to leave space for a
sloping triangular meadow. Pretty cottages lined
it on two sides, and the upper and third side was
occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple,
with a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's
house was near the church. In height it scarcely
exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were
at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The
scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine
and centre of a leisured world, and was marred
only by two ugly little villas — the villas that had
competed with Cecil's engagement, having been ac-
| quired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that
i Lucy had been acquired by Cecil.

"Cissie" was the name of one of these villas,
■ "Albert" of the other. .These titles were not only
picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates,
, but appeared a second time on the porches, where
i they followed the semicircular curve of the en-
i trance arch in block capitals. "Albert" was inhab-
it ited. His tortured garden was bright with gera-
niums and lobelias and polished shells. His little
'. windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace.
"Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, bclong-
' ing to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence md mv
-IJ7-

A Room with a View

nounced the not surprising fact. Her paths were
already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn
was yellow with dandelions.

"The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechani-
cally. "Summer Street will never be the same
again."

As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened,
and a gentleman came out of her.

"Stop I" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the
coachman with her parasol. "Here's Sir Harry.
Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things
down at oncel"

Sir Harry Otway — who need not be described
— came to the carriage and said:

"Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, 1
really can't turn out Miss Flack."

"Am I not always right? She ought to have
gone before the contract was signed. Does she
still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?"

"But what can I do?" He lowered his voice.
"An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bed-
ridden."

"Turn her out," said Cecil bravely.

Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mourn,
fully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack';
intentions, and might have bought the plot before
building commenced: but he was apathetic and dil-
atory. He had known Summer Street for so man]
years that he could not imagine it being spoilt
Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone

Lucy As a Work of Art

and the apparition of red and cream brick began to
rise, did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack,
the local builder, — a most reasonable and respect-
ful man — who agreed that tiles would have made
a more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates
were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however,
about the Corinthian columns which were to cling
like leeches to the frames of the bow windows,
saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the
facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted
that a column, if possible, should be structural as
well as decorative. Mr. Flack replied that all the
columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the
capitals different — one with dragons in the foliage,
another approaching to the Ionian style, another
introducing Mrs. Flack's initials — every one dif-
ferent." For he had read his Ruskin. He built his
villas according to his desire; and not until he had
inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did
Sir Harry buy..

This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the
knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honey-
church's carriage. He had failed in his duties to
the country-side, and the country-side was laughing
at him as well. He had spent money, and yet
Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he
could do now was to find a desirable tenant for
"Cissie" — some one really desirable.

"The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and
* perhaps I am an easy landlord. But It w sosJa «xt
I -159-

A Room with a View

awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class,
and too small for any one the least like ourselves."
Cecil had been hesitating whether he should de-
spise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising
them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruit

fid.

"You ought to find a tenant at once," he said
maliciously. "It would be a perfect paradise for
a bank clerk."

"Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is,
exactly what I fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the
wrong type of people. The train service has im-:
proved — a fatal improvement, to my mind. And.
what are five miles from a station in these days of,,
bicycles?" '

"Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said-
Lucy. :

Cecil, who had his full share of medieval mis-
chievousness, replied that the physique of the
lower middle classes was improving at a most appal-^
ling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their 1
harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him.

"Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea.
How would you like spinsters?"

"My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you*
know any such?"

"Yes; I met them abroad." ™

"Gentlewomen ?" he asked tentatively.

"Yes, indeed, and at the present moment home*^
less. I heard from them last week — Miss Teresa^
■ -i6o-

Lucy As a Work of Art

and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking.
They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows
them, too. May I tell them to write to you?"

"Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are
with the difficulty solved already. How delight-
ful it is I Extra facilities — please tell them they
shall have extra facilities, for I shall have
no agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling
people they have sent me I One woman, when I
wrote — a tactful letter, you know — asking her to
explain her social position to me, replied that she
would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares
about that! And several references I took up
were most unsatisfactory — people swindlers, or not
respectable. And oh, the deceit I I have seen a
good deal of the seamy side this last week. The de-
ceit of the most promising people. My dear
Lucy, the deceit!"

She nodded.

"My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to
hare nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gen-
tlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me
from people who have seen better days, and bring
heirlooms with them that make the house smell
stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather let to
some one who is going up in the' world than to some
tone who has come down."

think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but
otitis, as you say, a very sad thing."

"The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried. Y-ucj.

r-l6l~

A Room with a View

"Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met the
hut I should say they were a highly unsuitable ad<
tion to the neighbourhood."

"Don't listen to him, Sir Harry — he's tiresome

"It's I who am tiresome," he replied. '
oughtn't to come with my troubles to young peopl
But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway w
only say that I cannot be too careful, which is qui
true, but no real help."

"Then may I write to my Misses Alan?"

"Please I"

But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychur'
exclaimed :

"Beware ! They arc certain to have canarie
Sir Harry, beware of canaries : they spit the seed 01
through the bars of the cages and then the mil
come. Beware of women altogether. Only It
to a man."

"Really — " he murmured gallantly, though 1
saw the wisdom of her remark.

"Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they g>
drunk, there's an end of them — they lie down cor
fortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar, the
somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't sprea
so. Give me a man — of course, provided he
clean."

Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil ei
joyed these open compliments to their sex. Ev«
the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them muc
-162-

Lucy As a Work of Art

distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch,
if she had time, should descend from the carriage
and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was delighted.
Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in
such a, house. Domestic arrangements always at-
tracted her, especially when they were on a small
scale.

Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her
mother.

"Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two
walk home and leave you?"

"Certainly I" was her cordial reply.
Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get
rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said,
"Aha 1 young people, young people I" and then hast-
ened to unlock the house.

"Hopeless vulgarian I" exclaimed Cecil, almost
before they were out of earshot.
"Oh, Cecil 1"

"I can't help it. It would be wrong not to
loathe that man."

"He isn't clever, but really he is nice."
"No, Lucy he stands for all that is bad in country
life. In London he would keep his place. He
would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would
give brainless dinner parties. But down here he
acts the little god with his gentility, and his patron-
age, and his sham aesthetics, and every one — even
your mother — is taken in."

-163-

A Room with a View

"All that you say is quite true," said Lucy,
though she felt discouraged. "I wonder whether —
whether it matters so very much."

"It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence
of that garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I
feel 1 How I do hope he'll get some vulgar tenant
in that villa — some woman so really vulgar that
he'll notice it. Gentlefolks! Ugh! with his bald
head and retreating chin! But let's forget him."

This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil dis-
liked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guar-
antee was there that the people who really mat-
tered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy.
Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful,
and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute,
"It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And
what would she reply? Further than Freddy she
did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She
could only assure herself that Cecil had known
Freddy some time, and that they had always got on
pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the last few
days, which was an accident, perhaps.

"Which way shall we go?" she asked him.

Nature — simplest of topics, she thought — was J
around them. Summer Street lay deep in the J
woods, and she had stopped where a footpath di- \
verged from the highroad.

"Are there two ways?"

"Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got''
up smart."

-16*-

Lucy As a Work of Art

"I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil,
with that subdued irritation that she had noticed in
him all the afternoon. "Why is it, Lucy, that you
always say the road ? Do you know that you have
never once been with me in the fields or the wood
since we were engaged?"

"Haven't I ? The wood, then," said Lucy,
startled at his queerness, but pretty sure -that he
would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her
in doubt as to his meaning.

She led the way into the whispering pines, and
sure enough he did explain before they bad gone a
dozen yards.

"I had got an idea — I dare say wrongly — that
you feel more at home with me in a room."

"A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered.

"Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a
road. Never in the real country like this."

"Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have
never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I
was a kind of poetess sort of person."

"I don't know that you aren't. I connect
you with a view — a certain type of view. Why
shouldn't you connect me with a room?"

She reflected a moment, and then said, laughing:

"Do you know that you're right? I do. I
must be a poetess after all. When I think of you ■.
it's always as jn a room. How funny 1"

To her surprise, he seemed annoyed.

"A drawing-room, pray? With no y\ctiT \
\ -165-

A Room with a View

"Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?"

"I'd rather," he said reproachfully, "that j
connected me with the open air."

She said again, "Oh, Cecil, whatever do y
mean?"

As no explanation was forthcoming, she she
off the subject as too difficult for a girl, and 1
him further into the wood, pausing every now a
then at some particularly beautiful or familiar co
bination of the trees. She had known the wo
between Summer Street and Windy Corner e\
since she could walk alone; she had played at losi
Freddy in it, when Freddy was a purple-faced bat
and though she had been to Italy, it had lost no
of its charm.

Presently they came to a little clearing amo
the pines — another tiny green alp, solitary t)
time, and holding in its bosom a shallow pool.

She exclamed, "The Sacred Lake I"

"Why do you call it that?"

"I can't remember why. I suppose it -comes c
of some book. It's only a puddle now, but you !
that stream going through it? Well, a good d<
of water conies down after heavy rains, and can't (
away at once, and the pool becomes quite large a
beautiful. Then Freddy used to bathe there. I
is very fond of it."

"And you?"

He meant, "Are you fond of it?" But she s
-i 66-

Lucy As a Work of Art

swered dreamily, "I bathed here, too, till I was
found out. Then there was a row."

At another time he might have been shocked,
for he had depths of prudishncss within him. But
now, with his momentary cult of the fresh air, he
was delighted at her admirable simplicity. He
looked at her as she stood by the pool's edge. She
was got up smart, as she phrased it, and she re-
minded him of some brilliant flower that has no
leaves of its own, but blooms abruptly out of a
world of green.

"Who found you out?"

"Charlotte," she murmured. "She was stopping
with us. Charlotte — Charlotte."

"Poor girl I"

She smiled gravely. A certain scheme, -from
which hitherto he had shrank, now appeared prac-
tical.

"Lucyl"

"Yes, I suppose we ought to be going," was her
reply.

"Lucy, I want to ask something of you that I
have never asked before."

At the serious note in his voice she stepped
frankly and kindly towards him.

"What, Cecil?"

"Hitherto never — not even that day on the lawn
when you agreed to marry me — "

He became self-conscious and kept glancing

-167-

. /

/ A Room with a View

round to see if they were observed. His cour
had gone.
. "Yes?"
^ "Up to now I have never kissed you."

She was as scarlet as if he had put the thing n
indelicately.

"No — more you have," she stammered.

"Then I ask you — may I now?"

"Of course, you may, Cecil. You might bef
I can't run at you, you know."

At that supreme moment he was conscious
nothing but absurdities. Her reply was in;
quate. She gave such a business-like lift to
veil. As he approached her he found time to v
that he could recoil. As he touched her, his g
pince-nez became dislodged and was flattened
tween them.

Such was the embrace. He considered, v
truth, that it had been a failure. Passion she
believe itself irresistible. It should forget civi
and consideration and all the other curses of a
fined nature. Above all, it should never ask
leave where there is a right of way. Why co
he not do as any labourer or navvy — nay, as
young man behind the counter would have do:
He recast the scene. Lucy was standing flow
like by the water, he rushed up and took her in
arms; she rebuked him, permitted him and reve
him ever after for his manliness. For he belie
that women revere men for their manliness.
-16%-

Lucy As a Work of Art

They left the pool in silence, after this one salu-
tation. He waited for her to make some remark
which should show him her inmost thoughts. At
last she spoke, and with fitting gravity.

"Emerson was the name, not Harris.'*

"What name?"

"The old man's."

"What old man?"

"That old man I told you about. The one Mr.
Eager was so unkind to."

He could not know that this was the most inti- \
mate conversation they had ever had.

-169-

Chapter X: Cecil as a Humourist

THE society out of which Cecil proposed t(
rescue Lucy was perhaps no very splendk
affair, yet it was more splendid than hei
antecedents entitled her to. Her father, a pros
perous local solicitor, had built Windy Corner, as ;
speculation at the time the district was opening up
and, falling in love with his own creation, had endec
by living there himself. Soon after his marriage
the social atmosphere began to alter. Other house:
were built on the brow of that steep southern slope
and others, again, among the pine-trees behind,
and northward on the chalk barrier of the downs
Most of these houses were larger than Windy Cor
ner, and were filled by people who came, not frorr
the district, but from London, and who mistook
the Honeychurches for the remnants of an indi-
genous aristocracy. He was inclined to be fright-
ened, but his wife accepted the situation without
either pride or humility. "I cannot think whal
people are doing," she would say, "but it is ex-
tremely fortunate for the children." She called
everywhere; her calls were returned with en-
thusiasm, and by the time people found out that
she was not exactly of their milieu, they liked her,
-lio-

Cecil As a Humourist

and it did not seem to matter. When Mr. Honey-
church died, he had the satisfaction — which few
honest solicitors despise — of leaving his family
rooted in the best society obtainable.

The best obtainable. Certainly many of the im-
migrants were rather dull, and Lucy realized this
more vividly since her return from Italy. Hither-
to she had accepted their ideals without questioning
—their kindly affluence, their inexplosive religion,
their dislike of paper-bags, orange-peet, and broken
bottles. A Radical out and out, she learnt to speak
with horror of Suburbia. Life, so far as she
troubled to conceive it, was a circle of rich, pleasant
people, with identical interests and identical foes.
In this circle, one thought, married, and died. Out-
side it were poverty and vulgarity for ever trying
to enter, just as the London fog tries to enter the
pine-woods pouring through the gaps in the northern
lulls. But, in Italy, where any one who chooses
may warm himself in equality, as in the sun, this con-
ception of life vanished. Her senses expanded; she
felt that there was no one whom she might not
get to like, that social barriers were irremovable,
doubtless, but not particularly high. You jump over
them just as you jump into a peasant's olive-yard
in the Apennines, and he is glad to see you. She
returned with new eyes.

So did Cecil; but Italy had quickened Cecil, not
to tolerance, but to irritation. He saw that the
local society was narrow, but, instead ol wfwr
-171-

A Room with a View

"Does that very much matter?" he rebelled, and

tried to substitute for it the society he called broad.

He did not realize that Lucy had consecrated her

environment by the thousand little civilities that

create a tenderness in time, and that though her

eyes saw its defects, her heart refused to despise it

(-entirely. Nor did he realize a more important

J point — that if she was too great for this society, she

- j was too great for all society, and had reached the

/ stage where personal intercourse would alone satisfy

ther. A rebefshe" was, but not of the kind he under-
stood — a rebel who desired, not a wider dwelling-
,room, but equality beside the man she loved. For
Italy was offering her the most priceless of all pos-
sessions — her own soul.

Playing bumble-puppy with Minnie Beebe, niece
to the rector, and aged thirteen — an ancient and
most honourable game, which consists in striking
tennis-balls high into the air, so that they fall over
the net and immoderately bounce; some hit Mrs.
Honeychurch; others are lost. The sentence is
confused, but the better illustrates Lucy's state of
mind, for she was trying to talk to Mr. Beebe at the
same time.

"Oh, it has been such a nuisance — first he, then
they — no one knowing what they wanted, and every
one so tiresome."

"But they really are coming now," said Mr.
Beebe. "I wrote to Miss Teresa a few days ago — ■
she was wondering how often the butcher called, and
-ill-

Cecil As a Humourist

my reply of once a month must have impressed her
favourably. They are coming. I heard from them
this morning."

"I shall hate those Miss Alans 1" Mrs. Honey-
church cried.* "Just because they're old and silly
one's expected to say 'How sweet 1' I hate their
'if'-ing and 'but'-ing and 'and'-ing. And poor Lucy
— serve her right — worn to a shadow."

Mr. Beebe watched the shadow springing and
shouting over the tennis-court. Cecil was absent —
one did not play bumble-puppy when he was there.

"Well, if they are coming — No, Minnie, riot
Saturn." Saturn was a tennis-ball whose skin was
partially unsewn. When in motion his orb was en-
circled by a ring. "If they are coming, Sir Harry
will let them move in before the twenty-ninth, and he
will cross out the clause about whitewashing the
ceilings, because it made them nervous, and put in
the fair wear and tear one. — That doesn't count.
I told you not Saturn."

"Saturn's all right for bumble-puppy," cried
Freddy, joining them. "Minnie, don't you listen to
her."

"Saturn doesn't bounce."

"Saturn bounces enough."

"No, he doesn't."

"Well, he bounces better than the Beautiful White
Devil."

"Hush, dear," said Mrs. Honeychurch.

"But look at Lucy — complaining oi SrtAnxtn, *nR
-173-

A Room with a View

all the time's got the Beautiful White Devil in he
hand, ready to plug it in. That's right, Minnie
go for her — get her over the shins with the rac
quet — get her over the shins 1"

Lucy fell, the Beautiful White Devil rolled fror
her hand.

Mr. Beebe picked it up, and said: "The nam
of this ball is Vittoria Corombona, please." Bu
his correction passed unheeded.

Freddy possessed to a high degree the power o
lashing little girls to fury, and in half a minute h
had transformed Minnie from a well-manneret
child into a howling wilderness. Up in the housi
Cecil heard them, and, though he was full of enter
taining news, he did not come down to impart it, ii
case he got hurt. He was not a coward and bon
necessary pain as well as any man. But he hatec
the physical violence of the young. How right i
wasl Sure enough it ended in a cry.

"I wish the Miss Alans could see this," observet
Mr. Beebe, just as Lucy, who was nursing the in
jured Minnie, was in turn lifted off her feet by hei
brother.

"Who are the Miss Alans?" Freddy panted.

"They have taken Cissie Villa."

"That wasn't the name — "

Here his foot slipped, and they all fell mosi
agreeably on to the grass. An interval elapses.

"Wasn't what name ?" asked Lucy, with hei
brother's head in her lap.

Cecil As a Humourist

"Alan wasn't the name of the people Sir Harry's
let to."

"Nonsense, Freddy 1 You know nothing about
it."

"Nonsense yourself! I've this minute seen him.
He said to me : 'Ahem ! Honeychurch,' " — Freddy
was an indifferent mimic — " 'ahem! ahem! I have
at last procured really dee-sire-rebel tenants.' I
said, 'Hooray, old boy!' and slapped him on the
back."

"Exactly. The Miss Alans?"

"Rather not. More like Anderson,"

"Oh, good gracious, there isn't going to be an-
other muddle!" Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed.
Do you notice, Lucy, I'm always right? I said
don't interfere with Cissie Villa. I'm always right.
I'm quite uneasy at being always right so often. 1

"It's only another muddle of Freddy's. Freddy
doesn't even know the name of the people he pre-
tends have taken it instead."

"Yes, I do. I've got it. Emerson." ~

"What name?"

"Emerson. I'll bet you anything you like.'

"What a weathercock Sir Harry is," said Lucy
Quietly. "I wish I had never bothered over it ai

a&"

Then she lay on her back and gazed at the cloud-
less sky. Mr. Beebe, whose opinion of her rose
daily, whispered to his niece that that was the
Proper way to behave if any little thing went mowg,.
-175-

y

;

:

A Room with a View

Meanwhile the name of the new tenants had
diverted Mrs. Honeychurch from the contempla-
tion of her own abilities.

"Emerson, Freddy? Do you know what Emer-
sons they are?"

"I don't know whether they're any Emersons,"
retorted Freddy, who was democratic. Like his
sister and like most young people, he was natu-
rally attracted by the idea of equality, and the
undeniable fact that there are different kinds of
Emersons annoyed him beyond measure.

"I trust they are the right sort of person. All
right, Lucy" — she was sitting up again — "I sec
you looking down your nose and thinking your
mother's a snob. But there is a right sort and a
wrong sort, and it's affectation to pretend there
isn't."

"Emerson's a common enough name," Lucy
remarked.

She was gazing sideways. Seated on a prom-
ontory herself, she could see the pine-clad prom-
ontories descending one beyond another into
the Weald. The further one descended the gar-
den, the more glorious was this lateral view.

"I was merely going to remark, Freddy, that I
trusted they were no relations of Emerson the phil-
osopher, a most trying man. Pray, does that sat-
isfy you?"

"Oh, yes," he grumbled. "And you will be
satisfied, too, for they're friends of Cecil; so" —
-V]6-

Cecil As a Humourist

with elaborate irony — "you and the other country
families will be able to call in perfect safety."

"Cecil?" exclaimed Lucy.

"Don't be rude, dear," said his mother placidly.
"Lucy, don't screech. It's a new bad habit you're
getting into."

"But has Cecil — "

"Friends of Cecil's," he repeated, " 'and so really
dee-sire-rebe!. Ahem! Honeychurch, I have just
telegraphed to them.' "

She got up from the grass.

It was hard on Lucy. Mr. Beebe sympathized
with her very much. While she believed that her
snub about the Miss Alans came from Sir Harry
Otway, she had borne it like a good girl. She
might well "screech" when she heard that it came
partly from her lover. Mr. Vyse was a tease —
something worse than a tease : he took a malicious
leasure in thwarting people. The clergyman,
knowing this, looked at Miss Honeychurch with
more than his usual kindness.

When she exclaimed, "But Cecil's Emersons —
they can't possibly be the same ones — there is
that — " he did not consider that the exclamation
was strange, but saw in it an opportunity of divert-
ing the conversation while she recovered her com-
posure. He diverted it as follows :

"The Emersons who were at Florence, do you
mean? No, I don't suppose it will prove to be
them. It is probably a long cry from tatm *
i -177-

A Room with a View

friends of Mr. Vyse's. Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch
the oddest people 1 The queerest people I Foi
our part we liked them, didn't we?" He appealec
to Lucy. "There was a great scene over somt
violets. They picked violets and filled all the
vases in the room of these very Miss Alans who
have failed to come to Cissie Villa. Poor little
ladies I So shocked and so pleased. It used to be
one of Miss Catharine's great stories. 'My dear
sister loves flowers,' it began. They found the
whole room a mass of blue — vases and jugs — and
the story ends with 'So ungentlemanly and yet so
beautiful.' It is all very difficult. Yes, I always
connect those Florentine Emersons with violets."

"Fiasco's done you this time," remarked Freddy,
not seeing that his sister's face was very red. She
could not recover herself. Mr. Beebe saw it, and
continued to divert the conversation.

"These particular Emersons consisted of a father
and a son — the son a goodly, if not a good young
man; not a fool, I fancy, but very immature-
pessimism, et cetera. Our special joy was the
father — such a sentimental darling, and people de-
clared he had murdered his wife."

In his normal state Mr. Beebe would never have
repeated such gossip, but he was trying to shelter
Lucy in her little trouble. He repeated any rub-
bish that came into his head.

"Murdered his wife?" said Mrs. Honeychurch.

-178-

Cecil As a Humourist

"Lucy, don't desert us — go on playing bumble-
puppy. Really, the Pension Bertolini must have
been the oddest place. That's the second murderer
I've heard of as being there. Whatever was Char-
lotte doing to stop ? By-the-by, we really must ask
Charlotte here some time."

Mr. Beebe could recall no second murderer. He
suggested that his hostess was mistaken. At the
hint of opposition she warmed. She was perfectly
Hire that there had been a second tourist of whom
the same story had been told. The name escaped
her. What was the name? Oh, what was the
:? She clasped her knees for the name.
Something in Thackeray. She struck her matronly
forehead.

Lucy asked her brother whether Cecil was in.

"Oh, don't go I" he cried, and tried to catch her
by the ankles.

"I must go," she said gravely. "Don't be silly.
You always overdo it when you play."

As she left them her mother's shout of "Harris !"
■hivered the tranquil air, and reminded her that
the had told a lie and had never put it right. Such
i senseless lie, too, yet it shattered her nerves and
Bade her connect these Emersons, friends of Cecil's,
nth a pair of nondescript tourists. Hitherto
troth had come to her naturally. She saw that
for the future she must be more vigilant, and be —
ibsolutely truthful? Well, at all events, she must
-179-

A Room with a View

not tell lies. She hurried up the garden, stil
flushed with shame. A word from Cecil woulc
soothe her, she was sure.

"Cecil!"

"Hullo I" he called, and leant out of the smok-
ing-room window. He seemed in high spirits. "1
was hoping you'd come. I heard you all bear-
_ gardening, but there's better fun up here. I, ever
I, have won a great victory for the Comic Muse
George Meredith's right — the cause of Comedy anc
the cause of Truth are really the same ; and I, ever
I, have found tenants for the distressful Cissic
Villa. Don't be angry I Don't be angry I You'll
forgive me when you hear it all."

He looked very attractive when his face was
bright, and he dispelled her ridiculous forebodings
at once.

"I have heard," she said. "Freddy has told us.
Naughty Cecil I I suppose I must forgive you.
Just think of all the trouble I took for nothingl
Certainly the Miss Alans are a little tiresome,
and I'd rather have nice friends of yours. But
you oughtn't to tease one so."

"Friends of mine?" he laughed. "But, Lucy,
the whole joke is to come! Come here." Bui
she remained standing where she was. "Do you
know where I met these desirable tenants? In th«
National Gallery, when I was up to see my mothei
last week."

-180-

Cecil As a Humourist

"What an odd place to meet people!" she said
nervously. "I don't quite understand."

"In the Umbrian Room. Absolute strangers.

They were admiring Luca Signorelli — of course,

quite stupidly. However, we got talking, and they

refreshed me not a little. They had been to Italy."

"But, Cecil—"

He proceeded hilariously.

"In the course of conversation they said that
they wanted a country cottage — the father to live
there, the son to run down for week-ends. I
thought, 'What a chance of scoring off Sir Harry I*
ind I took their address and a London reference,
found they weren't actual blackguards — it was
peat sport — and wrote to him, making out — "

"Cecil I No, it's not fair. I've probably met
them before — "
He bore her down.

"Perfectly fair. Anything is fair that punishes
t mob. That old man will do the neighbourhood
i world of good. Sir Harry is too disgusting with
his 'decayed gentlewomen.' I meant to read him
t lesson some time. No, Lucy, the classes ought
to mix, and before long you'll agree with me.
There ought to be intermarriage — all sorts of
things. I believe in democracy — "

'No, you don't," she snapped. "You don't
know what the word means."
He stared at her, and felt again that she had

A Room with a View

failed to be Leonardesque. "No, you don't 1"
Her face was inartistic — that of a peevish virago.

"It isn't fair, Cecil. I blame you — I blame you
very much indeed. You had no business to undo
my work about the Miss Alans, and make me look
ridiculous. You call it scoring off Sir Harry, but
do you realize that it is all at my expense? I con-
sider it most disloyal of you."

She left him.

"Temper!" he thought, raising his eyebrows.
\ No, it was worse than temper — snobbishness. As
long as Lucy thought that his own smart friends
were supplanting the Miss Alans, she had not
minded. He perceived that these new tenants
might be of value educationally. He would tole-
rate the father and draw out the son, who was
silent. In the interests of the Comic Muse and
of Truth, he would bring them to Windy Corner.

Chapter XI: In Mrs. Vyse's Weil-Ap-
pointed Flat

THE Comic Muse, though able to look after
her own interests, did not disdain the as-
sistance of Mr. Vyse. His idea of bring-
ing the Emersons to Windy Corner struck her as
decidedly good, and she carried through the
negotiations without a hitch. Sir Harry Otway
signed the agreement, met Mr. Emerson, who was
duly disillusioned. The Miss Alans were duly of-
fended, and wrote a dignified letter to Lucy, whom
they held responsible for the failure. Mr. Beebe
planned pleasant moments for the new-comers, and
told Mrs. Honeychurch that Freddy must call on
them as soon as they arrived. Indeed, so ample
nas the Muse's equipment that she permitted Mr.
I Harris, never a very robust criminal, to droop his
I bead, to be forgotten, and to die.
I Lucy — to descend from bright heaven to earth,
thereon there are shadows because there are hills s
■Lucy was at first plunged into despair, but set-
:d after a litde thought that it did not matter
n the very least. Now that she was engaged, the
Emersons would scarcely insult her and were wel-
wme to come into the neighbourhood. And Cecil
*u welcome to bring whom he yjou\& vtft
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A Room with a View

neighbourhood. Therefore Cecil was welcome to

■ bring the Emersons into the neighbourhood. But,
as I say, this took a little thinking, and — so illogi-

■ cal are girls — the event remained rather greater

■ and rather more dreadful than it should have
done. She was glad that a visit to Mrs. Vyse now

1 fell due; the tenants moved into Cissie Villa while
she was safe in the London flat.

"Cecil — Cecil darling," she whispered the even-
ing she arrived, and crept into his arms.

Cecil, too, became demonstrative. He saw that
the needful fire had been kindled in Lucy. At last
she longed for attention, as a woman should, and
looked up to him because he was a man.

"So you do love me, little thing?" he murmured.

"Oh, Cecil, I do, I do! I don't know what I
should do without you."

Several days passed. Then she had a letter
from Miss Bartlett.

A coolness had sprung up between the two
cousins, and they had not corresponded since they
parted in August. The coolness dated from what
Charlotte would call "the flight to Rome," and in
Rome it had increased amazingly. For the com-
panion who is merely uncongenial in the mediaeval,
world becomes exasperating in the classical. Char-
lotte, unselfish in the Forum, would have tried a.
sweeter temper than Lucy's, and once, in the Baths.
of Caracalla, they had doubted whether they could,
continue their tour. Lucy had said she would join.

In- Mrs. Vyse's Well-Appointed Flat

the Vyses — Mrs. Vysc was an acquaintance of her
mother, so there was no impropriety in the plan —
and Miss Bartlett had replied that she was quite
used to being abandoned suddenly. Finally nothing
happened; but the coolness remained, and, for Lucy,
was even increased when she opened the letter and
read as follows. It had been forwarded from
Windy Corner.

"Tunbridge Wells,
"September.
"Dearest Lucia,

"I have news of you at Iastl Miss Lavish has been
bicycling in your parts, but was not sure whether a call
would be welcome. Puncturing her tire near Summer
Street, and it being mended while she sat very woebegone
in that pretty churchyard, she saw to her astonishment, a
door open opposite and the younger Emerson man come
out. He said his father had just taken the house. He said
he did not know that you lived in the neighbourhood ( ?).
He never suggested giving Eleanor a cup of tea. Dear
Lucy, I am much worried, and I advise you to make
a dean breast of his past behaviour to your mother, Freddy,
and Mr, Vyse, who will forbid him to enter the house,
etc. That was a great misfortune, and I dare say you
have told them already. Mr. Vyse is so sensitive. I re-
member how I used to get on his nerves at Rome. I am
'cry sorry about it all, and should not feel easy unless I
varned you.
"Believe me,

"Your anxious and loving cousin,

"Charlotte."

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A Room with a View

Lucy was much annoyed, and replied as follow:

"Beauchamp Mansions, S. W.
"Dear Charlotte,

"Many thanks for your warning. When Mr. Enters
forgot himself on the mountain, you made me promise n
to tell mother, because you said she would blame you f<
not being always with me. I have kept that promise, ar
cannot possibly tell her now. I have said both to her ar
Cecil that I met the Emersons at Florence, and that the
are respectable people — which I do think — and the reasc
that he offered Miss Lavish no tea was probably that 1
had none himself. She should have tried at the Rector
I cannot begin making a fuss at this stage. You mu
see that it would be too absurd. If the Emersons heai
I had complained of them, they would think themselv
of importance, which is exactly what they are not. I lil
the old father, and look forward to seeing him again. /
for the son, I am sorry for Aim when we meet, rather tha
for myself. They are known to Cecil, who is very we
and spoke of you the other day. We expect to be marrii
in January,

"Miss Lavish cannot have told you much about me, f<
I am not at Windy Corner at all. but here. Please i
not put 'Private' outside your envelope again. No 01
opens my letters.

"Yours affectionately.

"L. M. HoXBTCHCtCH."

Secrecy has this disadvantage: we lose the sen:
of proportion: we cannot teU whether our seen
is important or not. Were Lucy and her cousi
closeted with a great thing whicfe would destre

In Mrs. Vyse's Weil-Appointed Flat

Cecil's life if he discovered it, or with a little thing
which he would laugh at? Miss Bartlett suggested
the former. Perhaps she was right. It had be-
come a great thing now. Left to herself, Lucy
would have told her mother and her lover ingen-
uously, and it would have remained a little thing.
"Emerson, not Harris" ; it was only that a few
weeks ago. She tried to tell Cecil even now when
they were laughing about some beautiful lady who
had smitten his heart at school. But her body
behaved so ridiculously that she stopped.

She and her secret stayed ten days longer in the
deserted Metropolis visiting the scenes they were
to know so well later on. It did her no harm,
Cecil thought, to learn the framework of society,
while society itself was absent on the golf-links or
(he moors. The weather was cool, and it did her
no harm. In spite of the season, Mrs. Vyse man-
aged to scrape together a dinner-party consisting
entirely of the grandchildren of famous people.
The food was poor, but the talk had a witty wear-
iness that impressed the girl. One was tired of
everything, it seemed. One launched into enthus-
iasms only to collapse gracefully, and pick oneself
up amid sympathetic laughter. In this atmosphere
the Pension Bertolini and Windy Corner appeared
equally crude, and Lucy saw that her London career
would estrange her a little from all that she had
loved in the past.

The grandchildren asked her to play the piano.

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A Room with a View

She played Schumann. "Now some Beethoven,"
called Cecil, when the querulous beauty of the
music had died. She shook her head and played
Schumann again. The melody rose, un profitably
magical. It broke; it was resumed broken, not
marching once from the cradle to the grave. The
/ sadness of the incomplete — the sadness that is s
^ often Life, but should never be Art — throbbed J
in its disjected phrases, and made the nerves of
the audience throb. Not thus had she played on
the little draped piano at the Bertolini, and "Too
much Schumann" was not the remark that Mr,
Beebe had passed to himself when she returned.
When the guests were gone, and Lucy had gone
to bed, Mrs. Vyse paced up and down the drawing-
room, discussing her little party with her son. Mrs.
Vyse was a nice woman, but her personality, like'
many another's, had been swamped by London, for'
it needs a strong head to live among many people.
The too vast orb of her fate had crushed her; and
she had seen too many seasons, too many cities, too
many men, for her abilities, and even with Cecil she
was mechanical, and behaved as if he was not one
son, but, so to speak, a filial crowd.

"Make Lucy one of us," she said, looking round
intelligently at the end of each sentence, and strain-
ing her lips apart until she spoke again. "Lucy is
becoming wonderful — wonderful."
"Her music always was wonderful."
"Yes, but she is purging off the Honeychurch

In Mrs. Vyse's Weil-Appointed Flat

taint — most excellent Honeychurches, but you know
what I mean. She is not always quoting servants,
or asking one how the pudding is made."

"Italy has done it." „

"Perhaps," she murmured, thinking of the mu-
7 Kum that represented Italy to her. "It is just pos-
lible. Cecil, mind you marry her next January.
t She is one of us already."

But her music I" he exclaimed. "The style of
licrl How she kept to Schumann when, like an
idiot, I wanted Beethoven. Schumann was right
this evening. Schumann was the thing. Do
you know, mother, I shall have our children edu-
cated just like Lucy. Bring them up among honest
country folks for freshness, send them to Italy for
ri sibtlety, and then — not till then — let them come to
i London. I don't believe in these London educa-
c Sons — " He broke off, remembering that he had
bad one himself, and concluded, "At all events,
»t for women."

Make her one of us," repeated Mrs. Vyse, and
processed to bed.

As she was dozing off, a cry — the cry of night-
mare — rang from Lucy's room. Lucy could ring
i for the maid if she liked but Mrs. Vyse thought it
1 to go herself. She found the girl sitting up-
right with her hand on her cheek.
"I am so sorry, Mrs. Vyse — it is these drcai '*
"Bad dreams?"
"Just dreams."

^189-
(

A Room with a View

The elder lady smiled and kissed her, saying v
distinctly: "You should have heard us talk
about you, dear. He admires you more, than e\
Dream of that."

Lucy returned the kiss, still covering one chi
with her hand. Mrs. Vyse recessed to bed. Ce
whom the cry had not awoke, snored. Darkn
enveloped the Bat.

Chapter XII: Twelfth Chapter

IT was a Saturday afternoon, gay and brilliant
after abundant rains, and the spirit of youth
dwelt in it, though the season was now autumn.
All that was gracious triumphed. As the motor-
cars passed through Summer Street they raised only
a little dust, and their stench was soon dispersed by
the wind and replaced by the scent of the wet birches
or of the pines. Mr. Beebe, at leisure for life's
imenities, leant over his Rectory gate. Freddy
bnt by him, smoking a pendant pipe.

'Suppose we go and hinder those new people
opposite for a little."
"M'm."

"They might amuse you."

Freddy, whom his fellow-creatures never amused,
suggested that the new people might be feeling a
bit busy, and so on, since they had only just moved
in.

"I suggested we should hinder them," said Mr.
Beebe. "They are worth it." Unlatching the
s*te, he sauntered over the triangular green to
Cissie Villa. "Hullo I" he cried, shouting in at the
open door, through which much squalor was v^"'"
A grave voice replied, "Hullo I"
"I've brought some one to see yoo."
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A Room with a View

"I'll be down in a minute."

The passage was blocked by a wardrobe, whi
the removal men had failed to carry up the stait
Mr. Beebe edged round it with difficulty. Tl
sitting-room itself was blocked with books.

"Are these people great readers?" Freddy whi
pered. "Are they that sort?"

"I fancy they know how to read — a rare accor
plishment. What have they got? Byron. E:
actly. A Shropshire Lad. Never heard of i
The Way of All Flesh. Never heard of it. Gil
bon. Hullo! dear George reads German. Um-
um — Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, and so we go o:
Well, I suppose your generation knows its ow
business, Honeychurch."

"Mr. Beebe, look at that," said Freddy in aw
struck tones.

On the cornice of the wardrobe, the hand of ;
amateur had painted this inscription: "Mistru
all enterprises that require new clothes."

"I know. Isn't it jolly? I like that. I'm ce
tain that's the old man's doing."

"How very odd of him!"

"Surely you agree?"

But Freddy was his mother's son and felt th
one ought not to go on spoiling the furniture.

"Pictures!" the clergyman continued, scramblir
about the room. "Giotto — they got that at Flo
ence, I'll be bound."

"The same as Lucy's got."
-191-

Twelfth Chapter

"Oh, by-the-by, did Miss Honeychurch enjoy Lon-
don?"

"She came back yesterday."

"I suppose she-had a good time?"

"Yes, very," said Freddy, taking up a book.
"She and Cecil are thicker than ever."

"That's good hearing."

"I wish I wasn't such a fool, Mr. Beehe."

Mr. Beebe ignored the remark.

"Lucy used to be nearly as stupid as I am, but
it'll be very different now, mother thinks. She will
read all kinds of books."

"So will you."

"Only medical books. Not books that you can
talk about afterwards. Cecil is teaching Lucy Ital-
ian, and he says her playing is wonderful. There
"re all kinds of things in it that we have never no-
ticed. Cecil says—"

"What on earth are those people doing upstairs?
Emerson — we think we'll come another time."

George ran down-stairs and pushed them into the
room without speaking,

"Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, a nelgh-
i*ur."

Then Freddy hurled one of the thunderbolts of
Jouth. Perhaps he was shy, perhaps he was
friendly, or perhaps he thought that George's face
wanted washing. At all events he greeted b'tm
with, "How d'ye do? Come and have a

"Oh, all right," said George, impassWt
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A Room with a View

Mr. Beebe was highly entertained.

" 'How d' ye do? how d'ye do? Come and have
a bathe,' " he chuckled. "That's the best conver-
sational opening I've ever heard. But .I'm afraid
it will only act between men. Can you picture a i
lady who has been introduced to another lady by a
third lady opening civilities with 'How do you do?
Come and have a bathe' ? And yet you will tell
me that the sexes are equal."

"I tell you that they shall be," said Mr. Emerson,
who had been slowly descending the stairs. "Good-
afternoon, Mr. Beebe. I tell you they shall be
comrades, and George thinks the same."

"We are to raise ladies to our level?" the clergy-
man inquired.

"The Garden of Eden," pursued Mr. Emerson,
still descending, "which you place in the past, is
really yet to come. We shall enter it when we no
longer despise our bodies."

Mr. Beebe disclaimed placing the Garden of Eden
anywhere.

"In this — not in other things — we men are ahead.
We despise the body less than women do. But not
until we are comrades shall we enter the garden."

"I say, what about this bathe?" murmured
Freddy, appalled at the mass of philosophy that
was approaching him.

"I believed in a return to Nature once. But
how can we return to Nature when we have never
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Twelfth Chapter

acen with her? To-day, I believe that we must
discover Nature. After many conquests we shall
attain simplicity. It is our heritage."

"Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, whose sister
you will remember at Florence."

"How do you do? Very glad to see you, and
that you are taking George for a bathe. Very glad
to hear that your sister is going to marry. Mar-
riage is a duty. I am sure that she will be happy,
for we know Mr. Vyse, too. He has been most
kind. He met us by chance in the National Gal-
lery, and arranged everything about this delightful
house. Though I hope I have not vexed Sir Harry
Otway. I have met so few Liberal landowners,
and I was anxious to compare his attitude towards
the game laws with the Conservative attitude. Ah,
this wind I You do well to bathe. Yours is a
glorious country, Honeychurch!"

"Not a bit I*' mumbled Freddy. "I must — that is
to say, I have to — have the pleasure of calling on
you later on, my mother says, I hope."

"Call, my lad? Who taught us that drawing- l
room twaddle? Call on your grandmother! Lis-
ten to the wind among the pines ! Yours is a glori-
aus country."

Mr. Beebe came to the rescue.

"Mr. Emerson, he will call, I shall call; you or
four son will return our calls before ten days have
lapsed. I trust that you have realized about the
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A Room with a View

ten days* interval. It does not count that I helped
you with the stair-eyes yesterday. It does not count
that they are going to bathe this afternoon."

"Yes, go and bathe, George. Why do you
dawdle talking? Bring them back to tea. Bring
back some milk, cakes, honey. The change will do
you good. George has been working very hard at
his office. I can't believe he's well."

George bowed his head, dusty and sombre, exhal-
ing the peculiar smell of one who has handled fur-
niture.

"Do you really want this bathe?" Freddy asked
him. "It is only a pond, don't you know. I dare
say you are used to something better."

"Yes — I have said 'Yes' already."

Mr. Beebe felt bound to assist his young friend,
and led the way out of the house and into the pine-
woods. How glorious it was! For a little time
the voice of old Mr. Emerson pursued them dispens-
ing good wishes and philosophy. It ceased, and
they only heard the fair wind blowing the bracken
and the trees.

Mr. Beebe, who could be silent, but who could
not bear silence, was compelled to chatter, since the
expedition looked like a failure, and neither of his
companions would utter a word. He spoke of
Florence. George attended gravely, assenting or J
dissenting with slight but determined gestures that f
were as inexplicable as the motions of the tree-tops J
above their heads.

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Twelfth Chapter

"And what a coincidence that you should meet
Mr. Vyse ! Did you realize that you would find all
the Pension Bertolini down here?"

"I did not. Miss Lavish told me."

"When I was a young man, I always meant to
write a 'History of Coincidence.' "

No enthusiasm.

"Though, as a matter of fact, coincidences are
much rarer than we suppose. For example, it isn't
purely coincidentality that you are here now, when
one comes to reflect."

To his relief, George began to talk.

"It is. I have reflected. It is Fate. Every-
thing is Fate. We are flung together by Fate,
drawn apart by Fate — flung together, drawn
apart. The twelve winds blow us — we settle noth-
ing—"

"You have not reflected at all," rapped the clergy-
man. "Let me give you a useful tip, Emerson : at-
tribute nothing to Fate. Don't say, 'I didn't do
this,' for you did it, ten to one. Now I'll cross-
question you. Where did you first meet Miss
Honeychurch and myself?"

"Italy."

"And where did you meet Mr. Vyse, who is going
to marry Miss Honeychurch?"

"National Gallery."

"Looking at Italian art. There you are, and
y« you talk of coincidence and Fatel You natur*
ally seek out things Italian, and so do *Rt :
"197-

A Room with a View

friends. This narrows the field immeasurably, and
we meet again in it."

"It is Fate that I am here," persisted George.
"But you can call it Italy if it makes you less un-
happy."

Mr. Beebe slid away from such heavy treatment
of the subject. But he was infinitely tolerant of the
young, and had no desire to snub George.

"And so for this and for other reasons my 'His-
tory of Coincidence' is still to write."

Silence.

Wishing to round off the episode, he added;

"We are all so glad that you have come."

Silence. ,

"Here we are!" called Freddy.

"Oh, good!" exclaimed Mr. Beebe, mopping his
brow.

"In there's the pond. I wish it was bigger," he
added apologetically.

They climbed down a slippery bank of pine-need-
les. There lay the pond, set in its little alp of green
— only a pond, but large enough to contain the hum-
an body, and pure enough to reflect the sky. On ac-
count of the rains, the waters had flooded the sur-
rounding grass, which showed like a beautiful emer-
ald path, tempting the feet towards the central
pool.

"It's distinctly successful, as ponds go," said Mr.
Beebe. "No apologies are necessary for the pond."
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Twelfth Chapter

George sat down where the ground was dry, and
drearily unlaced his boots.

"Aren't those masses of willow-herb splendid?
I love willow-herb in seed. What's the name of
this aromatic plant?"

No one knew, or seemed to care.

"These abrupt changes of vegetation — this little
spongeous tract of water plants, and on either side
of it all the growths are tough or brittle — heather,
bracken, hurts, pines. Very charming, very charm-
ing."

"Mr. Beebe, aren't you bathing?" called Freddy,
as he stripped himself.

Mr. Beebe thought he was not.

"Water's wonderful!" cried Freddy, prancing in. ,

"Water's water," murmured George. Wetting
his hair first — a sure sign of apathy — he followed
Freddy into the divine, as indifferent as if he were
a statue and the pond a pail of soapsuds. It was
necessary to use his muscles. It was necessary to
keep clean. Mr. Beebe watched them, and watched
the seeds of the willow-herb dance chorically above
their heads.

"Apooshoo, apooshoo, apooshoo," went Freddy,
swimming for two strokes in either direction, and
then becoming involved in reeds or mud.

"Is it worth it?" asked the other, Michelangel-
esque on the flooded margin.

The bank broke away, and he fell into the pool
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A Room with a View

before he had weighed the question properly.

"Hee — poof — I've swallowed a pollywog. Mr.
Beebe, water's wonderful, water's simply ripping."

"Water's not so bad," said George, reappearing
from his plunge, and sputtering at the sun.

"Water's wonderful. Mr. Beebe, do."

"Apooshoo, kouf."

Mr. Beebe, who was hot, and who always ac-
quiesced where possible, looked around him. He
could detect no parishioners except the pine-trees,
rising up steeply on all sides, and gesturing to each
other against the blue. How glorious it was!
The world of motor-cars and rural Deans receded
' inimitably. Water, sky, evergreens, a wind—
these things not even the seasons can touch, and
surely they lie beyond the intrusion of man?

"I may as well wash too"; and soon his gar-
ments made a third little pile on the sward, and he
too asserted the wonder of the water.

It was ordinary water, nor was there very much
of it, and, as Freddy said, it reminded one of swim-
ming in a salad. The three gentlemen rotated in
the pool breast high, after the fashion of the
nymphs in Gotterdammerung. But either because
the rains had given a freshness or because the sur
was shedding a most glorious heat, or because twC
of the gentlemen were young in years and the third
young in spirit — for some reason or other a change
came over them, and they forgot Italy and Botany
-aoo-

Twelfth Chapter

and Fa"te. They began to play. Mr. Beebe and
Freddy splashed each other. A little deferentially,
they splashed George. He was quiet : they feared
they had offended him. Then all the forces of
youth burst out He smiled, flung himself at them,
splashed them, ducked them, kicked them, muddied
them, and drove them out of the pool. ,

"Race you round it, then," cried Freddy, and
they raced in the sunshine, and George took a short
cut and dirtied his shins, and had to bathe a second
time. Then Mr. Beebe consented to run — a mem-
orable sight.

They ran to get dry, they bathed to get cool,
they played at being Indians in the willow-herbs
and in the bracken, they bathed to get clean. And
all the time three little bundles lay discreetly on
the.Aarard, proclaiming:

f [ No. We are what matters. Without us shall
Tio enterprise begin. To us shall all flesh turn in
uVend."

"A try! A try I" yelled Freddy, snatching up
George's bundle and placing it beside an imaginary
goal-post.

"Socker rules," George retorted, scattering
Freddyls bundle with a kick.

"Goal!"

"Goal!"

"Pass!"

"Take care my watch!" cried Mr. Beebe.

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A Room with a View

Clothes flew in all directions.

"Take care my hat ! No, that's enough, Freddy.
Dress now. No, I say I"

But the two young men were delirious. Away
they twinkled into the trees, Freddy with a clerical
waistcoat under his arm, George with a wide-awake
hat on his dripping hair.

"That'll do I" shouted Mr. Beehe, remembering
that after all he was in his own parish. Then his
voice changed as if every pine-tree was a Rural
Dean. "Hil Steady onl I see people coming,
you fellows!"

Yells, and widening circles over the dappled
earth,

"Hi! hi! Ladies!"

Neither George nor Freddy was truly refined.
Still, they did not hear Mr. Beebe's last warning
or they would have avoided Mrs. Honeychurch,
Cecil, and Lucy, who were walking down to call
on old Mrs. Butterworth. Freddy dropped the
waistcoat at their feet, and dashed into some
bracken. George whooped in their faces, turned
and scudded away down the path to the pond, still
clad in Mr. Beebe's hat.

"Gracious alive!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch.
"Whoever were those unfortunate people? Oh,
dears, look away! And poor Mr. Beebe, too!
Whatever has happened?"

"Come this way immediately," commanded Cecil,
who always felt that he must lead women, though

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Twelfth Chapter

he knew not whither, and protect them, though he
knew not against what. He led them now towards
the bracken where Freddy sat concealed.

"Oh, poor Mr. Beebe I Was that his waistcoat
we left in the path? Cecil, Mr. Beebe's waist-
coat — "

"No business of ours," said Cecil, glancing at

Lucy, who was all parasol and evidently "minded."

"I fancy Mr. Beebe jumped back into the pond."

"This way, please, Mrs. Honeychurch, this way."

They followed him up the bank attempting the

tense yet nonchalant expression that is suitable for

ladies on such occasions.

"Well, / can't help it," said a voice close ahead,
and Freddy reared a freckled face and a pair of
snowy shoulders out of the fronds. "I can't be
trodden on, can I?"

"Good gracious me, dear; so it's youl What
miserable management! Why not have a com-
fortable bath at home, with hot and cold laid on?"
"Look here, mother, a fellow must wash, and a
fellow's got to dry, and if another fellow—

"Dear, no doubt you're right as usual, but you
are in no position to argue. Come, Lucy." They
turned. "Oh, look — don't look! Oh, poor Mr.
Beebe ! How unfortunate again — "

For Mr. Beebe'was just crawling out of the pond,
On whose surface garments of an intimate nature
did float; while George, the world-weary George,
shouted to Freddy that he had hooked a fish.
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A Room with a View

"And me, I've swallowed one," answered he o£
the bracken. "I've swallowed a pollywog. It
wriggleth in my tummy. I shall die — Emerson,
you beast, you've got on my bags."

"Hush, dears," said Mrs. Honeychurch, who
f found it impossible to remain shocked. "And do
I be sure you dry yourselves thoroughly first. All
\ — these colds come of not drying thoroughly."

"Mother, do come away," said Lucy. "Oh, for
goodness* sake, do come."

"Hullo I" cried George, so that again the ladies
stopped.

He regarded himself as dressed. Barefoot,
bare-chested, radiant and personable against the
shadowy woods, he called:

"Hullo, Miss Honeychurch! Hullo!"
"Bow, Lucy; better bow. Whoever is it? I
shall bow."

Miss Honeychurch bowed.

That evening and all that night the water ran
( .'■ away. On the morrow the pool had shrunk to its
1 ; old size and lost its glory. It had been a call to
\ \ the blood and to the relaxed will, a passing benedio
U tion whose influence did not pass, a holiness, a
* \ spell, a momentary chalice for youth.

Chapter XIII: How Miss Bartlett's
Boiler Was So Tiresome

HOW often had Lucy rehearsed this bow,
this interview! But she had always re-
hearsed them indoors, and with certain
accessories, which surely we have a right to assume.
Who could foretell that she and George would
meet in the rout of a civilization, amidst an army
of coats and collars and boots that lay wounded
over the sunlit earth? She had imagined a young
Mr. Emerson, who might be shy or morbid or in-
different or furtively Impudent. She was prepared
for all of these. But she had never imagined one
who would be happy and greet her with the shout
of the morning star.

Indoors herself, partaking of tea with old Mrs.
Butterworth, she reflected that it is impossible to
foretell the future with any degree of accuracy,
that it is impossible to rehearse life. A fault in
the scenery, a face in the audience, an irruption
of the audience on to the stage, and all our care-
fully planned gestures mean nothing, or mean too
much. "I will bow," she had thought. "I will
not shake hands with him. That will be just the
proper thing." She had bowed — but to
To gods, to heroes, to the nonsense of set
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A Room with a View

She had bowed across the rubbish that cumbt
the world.

So ran her thoughts, while her faculties we
busy with .Cecil. It was another of those dreadl
engagement calls. Mrs. Butterworth had want
to see him, and he did not want to be seen, i
did not want to hear about hydrangeas, why th
change their colour at the seaside. He did n
want to join the C. O. S. When cross he was ;
ways elaborate, and made long, clever answe
where "Yes" or "No" would have done. Lu
soothed him and tinkered at the conversation
a way that promised well for their married peac
No one is perfect, and surely it is wiser to di
cover the imperfections before wedlock. Mi
l Bartlett, indeed, though not in word, had taug
the girl that this our life contains nothing sat
factory. Lucy, though she disliked the teachc
regarded the teaching as profound, and applied
to her lover.

"Lucy," said her mother, when they got hom
"is anything the matter with Cecil?"

The question was ominous; up till now Mr
Honeychurch had behaved with charity and r
straint

"No, I don't think so, mother; Cecil's all right

"Perhaps he's tired."

Lucy compromised: perhaps Cecil was a Iitt
tired.

"Because otherwise" — she pulled out her bo

Miss Bartlett's Boiler

net-pins with gathering displeasure — "because
otherwise I cannot account for him."

"I do think Mrs. Butterworth is rather tiresome,
if you mean that."

"Cecil has told you to think so. You were de-
voted to her as a little girl, and nothing will de-
scribe her goodness to you through the typhoid
fever. No — it is just the same thing everywhere.
"Let me just put your bonnet away, may I?"
"Surely he could answer her civilly for one half-
hour?"

Cecil has a very high standard for people,"
faltered Luty, seeing trouble ahead. "It's part of
deals — it is really that that makes him some-
times seem — "

"Oh, rubbish!' If high ideals make a young
man rude, the sooner he gets rid of them the bet-
ter," said Mrs. Honeychurch, handing her the bon
net.

"Now, mother ! I've seen you cross with Mrs
Butterworth yourself 1"

"Not in that way. At times I could wring her
neck. But not in that way. No. It is the same
with Cecil all over."

"By-the-by — I never told you. I had a letter
from Charlotte while I was away in London.'

This attempt to divert the conversation was too
puerile, and Mrs. Honeychurch resented it.

"Since Cecil came back from London, nothing
ears to please him. Whenever I speak he
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I

A Room with a View

winces; — I see him, Lucy; it is useless to contra-
■ diet me. No doubt I am neither artistic nor liter-
' ary nor intellectual nor musical, but I cannot help
the drawing-room furniture; your father bought it
and we must put up with it, will Cecil kindly re-
member."

"I — I see what you mean, and certainly Cecil
oughtn't to. But he does not mean to be uncivil
— he once explained — it is the things that upset
him — he is easily upset by ugly things — he is not
uncivil to people."

"Is it a thing or a person when Freddy sings?"

"You can't expect a really musical person to en-
joy comic songs as we do."

"Then why didn't he leave the room? Why
sit wriggling and sneering and spoiling everyone's
! pleasure?"

"We mustn't he unjust to people," faltered Lucy.
Something had enfeebled her, and the case for Cecil,
which she had mastered so perfectly in London,
would not come forth in an effective form. The
two civilizations had clashed — Cecil hinted that
they might — and she was dazzled and bewildered,
as though the radiance that lies behind all civiliza-
. tion had blinded her eyes. Good taste and bad
taste were only catchwords, garments of diverse
cut; and music itself dissolved to a whisper through
pine-trees, where the song is not distinguishable
from the comic song.

She remained in much embarrassment, while Mrs.
-io8-

Miss Bartlett's Boiler

Honeychurch changed her frock for dinner; and
every now and then she said a word, and made
things no better. There was no concealing the
fact — Cecil had meant to be supercilious, and he
had succeeded. And Lucy — she knew not why —
wished that the trouble could have come at any
other time.
"Go and dress, dear; you'll be late,"
"All right, mother — "
"Don't say 'All right' and stop. Go."
She obeyed, but loitered disconsolately at the
landing window. It faced north, so there was little
view, and no view of the sky. Now, as in the win-
ter, the pine-trees hung close to her eyes. One
connected the landing window with depression. No
definite problem menaced her, but she sighed to
herself, "Oh, dear, what shall I do, what shall I
do?" It seemed to her that every one else was
behaving very badly. And she ought not to have
mentioned Miss Bartlett's letter. She must be more
careful; her mother was rather inquisitive, and
might have asked what it was about. Oh, dear,
what should she do? — and then Freddy came bound-
ing up-stairs, and joined the ranks of the ill-
behaved.

"I say, those are topping people."

"My dear baby, how tiresome you've been I You

had no business to take them bathing in the Sacred

Lake; it's much too public. It was all right for

pou, but most awkward for every one else. Do be

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A Room with a View

more careful. You forget the place is growing half
suburban."

"I say, is anything on to-morrow week?"
"Not that I know of."

"Then I want to ask the Emersons up to Sunday
tennis."

"Oh, I wouldn't do that, Freddy, I wouldn't do
that with all this muddle."

"What's wrong with the court? They won't
mind a bump or two, and I've ordered new balls."

"I meant it's better not. I really mean it."

He seized her by the elbows and humorously
danced her up and down the passage. She pre-
tended not to mind, but she could have screamed
with temper. Cecil glanced at them as he pro-
ceeded to his toilet and they impeded Mary with
her brood of hot-water cans. Then Mrs. Honey-
church opened her door and said: "Lucy, what
a noise you're making! I have something to say
to you. Did you say you had had a letter from
Charlotte?" and Freddy ran away.

"Yes. I really can't stop. I must dress too."

"How's Charlotte?"

"All right."

"Lucy I"

The unfortunate girl returned.

"You've a bad habit of hurrying away in the
middle of one's sentences. Did Charlotte mention
her boiler?"

"Her what?"

-no-

Miss Bartlett's Boiler

"Don't you remember that her boiler was to be
had out in October, and her bath cistern cleaned
out, and all kinds of terrible to-doings?"

"I can't remember all Charlotte's worries," said
Lucy bitterly. "I shall have enough of my own,
now that you are not pleased with Cecil."

Mrs. Honeychurch might have flamed out. She
did not. She said: "Come here, old lady — thank
you for putting away my bonnet — kiss me." And,
though nothing is perfect, Lucy felt for the moment
that her mother and Windy Corner and the Weald
in the declining sun were perfect.

So the grittiness went out of life. It generally
did at Windy Corner. At the last minute, when
the social machine was clogged hopelessly, one mem-
ber or other of the family poured in a drop of oil.
Cecil despised their methods — perhaps rightly. At
all events, they were not his own.

Dinner was at half-past seven. Freddy gabbled
a grace, and they drew up their heavy chairs and
fell to. Fortunately, the men were hungry. Noth-
ing untoward occurred until the pudding. Then
Freddy said:

"Lucy, what's Emerson like?"

"I saw him in Florence," said Lucy, hoping that
this would pass for a reply.

"Is he the clever sort, or is he a decent chap?"

"Ask Cecil; it is Cecil who brought him here."

"He is the clever sort, ltke myself," said Cecil.

Freddy looked at him doubtfully.

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A Room with a View

"How well did you know them at the Bertolini?"
asked Mrs. Honeychurch.

"Oh, very slightly. I mean, Charlotte knew
them even less than I did."

"Oh, that reminds me — you never told me what
Charlotte said in her letter."

"One thing and another," said Lucy, wondering
whether she would get through the meal without
a lie. "Among other things, that an awful friend
of hers had been bicycling through Summer Street,
wondered if she'd come up and see us, and merci-
fully didn't."

"Lucy, I do call the way you talk unkind."

"She was a novelist," said Lucy craftily. The
remark was a happy one, for nothing roused Mrs.
Honeychurch so much as literature in the hands of
females. She would abandon every topic to in-
veigh against those women who (instead of mind-
ing their houses and their children) seek notoriety
by print. Her attitude was: "If books must be
written, let them be written by men" ; and she de-
veloped it at great length, while Cecil yawned and
Freddy played at "This year, next year, now,
never," with his plum-stones, and Lucy artfully fed
the flames of her mother's wrath. But soon the
conflagration died down, and the ghosts began to
gather in the darkness. There were too many
ghosts about. The original ghost — that touch ol
lips on her cheek — had surely been laid long ago;
it could be nothing to her that a man had kissed
-ill-

Miss Bartlett's Boiler

her on a mountain once. But it had begotten a
spectral family — Mr. Harris, Miss Bartlett's letter,
Mr. Beebe's memories of violets — and one or other
of these was bound to haunt her before Cecil's very
eyes. It was Miss Bartlett who returned now,
and with appalling vividness.

"I have been thinking, Lucy, of that letter of
Charlotte's. How is she?"

"I tore the thing up."

"Didn't she say how she was? How does she
sound? Cheerful?"

"Oh, yes, I suppose so — no — not very cheerful,
I suppose."

"Then, depend upon it, it is the boiler. I know
myself how water preys upon one's mind. I would
rather anything else — even a misfortune with the
meat."

Cecil laid his hand over his eyes.

"So would I," asserted Freddy, backing his
mother up — backing up the spirit of her remark
rather than the substance.

"And I have been thinking," she added rather
nervously, "surely we could squeeze Charlotte in
here next week, and give her a nice holiday while
the plumbers at Tunbridge Wells finish. I have
not seen poor Charlotte for so long."

It was more than her nerves could stand. And
yet she could not protest violently after her mother's
goodness to her upstairs.

"Mother, no!" she pleaded. "It's imyomWe..
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A Room with a View

We can't have Charlotte on the top of the other f
things; we're squeezed to death as it is. Freddy'lj
got a friend coming Tuesday, there's Cecil, and 1
you've promised to take in Minnie Becbe because"
of the diphtheria scare. It simply can't be done."

"Nonsense! It can."

"If Minnie sleeps in the bath. Not otherwise."

"Minnie can sleep with you."

"I won't have her."

"Then, if you're so selfish, Mr. Floyd must share
a room with Freddy."

"Miss Bartlett, Miss Bartlett, Miss Bartlett,''
moaned Cecil, again laying his hand over his eyes-

"It's impossible," repeated Lucy. "I don't
want to make difficulties, but it really isn't fair or)
the maids to fill up the house so."

Alas I

"The truth is, dear, you don't like Charlotte."

"No, I don't. And no more does Cecil. She
gets on our nerves. You haven't seen her lately,
and don't realize how tiresome she can be, though
so good. So please, mother, don't worry us this
last summer; but spoil us by not asking her to
come."

"Hear, hear I" said Cecil.

Mrs. Honeychurch, with more gravity than
usual, and with more feeling than she usually per-
mitted herself, replied: "This isn't very kind of
you two. You have each other and all these woods
to walk in, so full of beautiful things; and poor

Miss Bartlett's Boiler

Charlotte has only the water turned off and
plumbers. You are young, dears, and however
clever young people are, and however many books
they read, they will never guess what it feels like
to grow old."

Cecil crumbled his bread.

"I must say Cousin Charlotte was very kind to
me that year I called on my bike," put in Freddy.
"She thanked me for coming till I felt like such a
fool, and fussed round no end to get an egg boiled
for my tea just right."

"I know, dear. She is kind to every one, and
yet Lucy makes this difficulty when we try to give
her some little return."

But Lucy hardened her heart. It was no good
being kind to Miss Bartlett. She had tried herself
too often and too recently. One might lay up
treasure in heaven by the attempt, but one en-
riched neither Miss Bartlett nor any one else upon
earth. She was reduced to saying: "I can't help
it, mother. I don't like Charlotte. I admit it's
horrid of me."

"From your own account, you told her as much."

"Well, she would leave Florence so stupidly.
She flurried — "

The ghosts were returning; they filled Italy,
they were even usurping the places she had known
as a child. The Sacred Lake would never be ihe
same again, and, on Sunday week, something would
even happen to Windy Corner. How would she
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A Room with a View

fight against ghosts? For a moment the visible
world faded away, and memories and emotions
alone seemed real.

"I suppose Miss Bartlett must come, since she
boils eggs so well," said Cecil, who was in rather
a happier frame of mind, thanks to the admirable
cooking.

"I didn't mean the egg was well boiled," cor-
rected Freddy, "because in point of fact she forgot
to .take it off, and as a matter of fact I don't care
for eggs. I only meant how jolly kind she
seemed,"

Cecil frowned again. Oh, these Honeychurches 1
Eggs, boilers, hydrangeas, maids — of such wer<
their lives compact. "May mc and Lucy get dowf
from our chairs?" he asked, with scarcely veilec
insolence. "We don't want no dessert."

Chapter XIV: How Lucy Faced the
i External Situation Bravely

OF course Miss Bartlett accepted. And,
equally of course, she felt sure that she
would prove a nuisance, and begged to be
given an inferior spare room — something with no
new, anything. Her love to Lucy. And, equally
of course, George Emerson could come to tennis
i on the Sunday week.

Lucy faced the situation bravely, though, like
most of us, she only faced the situation that en-
compassed her. She never gazed inwards. If at
times strange images rose from the depths, she put
them down to nerves. When Cecil brought the
Emersons to Summer Street, it had upset her
nerves. Charlotte would burnish up past foolish-
ness, and this might upset her nerves. She was
nervous at night. When she talked to George —
they met again almost immediately at the Rectory
—his voice moved her deeply, and she wished to
remain near him. How dreadful if she really
wished to remain near him I Of course, the wish
was due to nerves, which love to play such perverse
tricks upon us. Once she had suffered from "things
that came out of nothing and meant she dv&Cx
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A Room with a View

know what." Now Cecil had explained psychology
to her one wet afternoon, and all the troubles of
youth in an unknown world could be dismissed.

It is obvious enough for the reader to conclude,
"She loves young Emerson." A reader in Lucy's
place would not find it obvious. Life is easy to
chronicle, but bewildering to practice, and we wel-
come "nerves" or any other shibboleth that will
cloak our personal desire. She loved Cecil ; George
made her nervous; will the reader explain to her
that the phrases should have been reversed?

But the external situation — she will face that
bravely.

The meeting at the Rectory had passed off well
enough. Standing between Mr. Beebe and Cecil,
she had made a few temperate allusions to Italy,
and George had replied. She was anxious to show
that she was not shy, and was glad that he did not
seem shy cither.

"A nice fellow," said Mr. Beebe afterwards.
"He will work off his crudities in time. I rather
mistrust young men who slip into life gracefully/

Lucy said, "He seems in better spirits. He
laughs more."

"Yes," replied the clergyman, "He is waking
up."

That was all. But, as the week wore on, more
of her defences fell, and she entertained an image
that had physical beauty.

In spite of the clearest directions, Miss Bartlett

Lucy Faced the External Situation

contrived to bungle her arrival. She was due at
the South-Eastern station at Dorking, whither Mrs.
Honeychurch drove to meet her. She arrived at
the London and Brighton station, and had to hire
a cab up. No one was at home except Freddy and
his friend, who had to stop their tennis and to
entertain her for a solid hour. Cecil and Lucy
turned up at four o'clock, and these, wfth little
Minnie Beebe, made a somewhat lugubrious sex-
tette upon the upper lawn for tea.

"I shall never forgive myself," said Miss Bart-
lett, who kept on rising from her seat, and had to
be begged by the united company to remain. "I
have upset everything. Bursting in on young peo-
ple 1 But I insist on paying for my cab up. Grant
tne that, at any rate."

"Our visitors never do such dreadful things,'
said Lucy, while her brother, in whose memory
the boiled egg had already grown unsubstantial,
exclaimed in irritable tones: "Just what I've been
trying to convince Cousin Charlotte of, Lucy, for
the last half hour."

"I do not feel myself an ordinary visitor," said

Miss Bartlett, and looked at her frayed gloves.

"All right, if you'd really rather. Five shillings,

and I gave a bob to the driver."

Miss Bartlett looked in her purse. Only sov-
ereigns and pennies. Could any one give her
change? Freddy had half a quid and his friend
had four half-crowns. Miss Bartlett acteigtcd rfcsxt
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A Room with a View

moneys and then said: "But who am I to give the
sovereign to?"

"Let's leave it all till mother comes back," sug-
gested Lucy.

"No, dear; your mother may take quite a long
drive now that she is not hampered with me. We
all have our little foibles, and mine is the prompt
settling of accounts."

Here Freddy's friend, Mr. Floyd, made the one
remark of his that need be quoted: he offered to
toss Freddy for Miss Bartlett's quid. A solution
seemed in sight, and even Cecil, who had been
ostentatiously drinking his tea at the view, felt
the eternal attraction of Chance, and turned round

But this did not do, either.

"Please — please — I know I am a sad spoilsport,
but it would make me wretched. I should prac-
tically be robbing the one who lost."

"Freddy owes me fifteen shillings," interposed
Cecil. "So it will work out right if you give the
pound to me."

"Fifteen shillings," said Miss Bartlett dubi-
ously. "How is that, Mr. Vyse?"

"Because, don't you see, Freddy paid your cab.
Give me the pound, and we shall avoid this de-
plorable gambling."

Miss Bartlett, who was poor at figures, became
bewildered and rendered up the sovereign, amidst
the suppressed gurgles of the other youths. For
a moment Cecil wu haopy. He was playing at

Lucy Faced the External Situation

nonsense among his peers. Then he glanced at
Lucy, in whose face petty anxieties had marred the
smiles. In January he would rescue his Leonardo
from this stupefying twaddle.

"But I don't see that!" exclaimed Minnie Beebe
who had narrowly watched the iniquitous trans-
action. "I don't see why Mr. Vyse is to have the
quid."

"Because of the fifteen shillings and the five,"
they said solemnly. "Fifteen shillings and five
shillings make one pound, you see."

"But I don't see — "

They tried to stifle her with cake.

"No, thank you. I'm done, I don't see why —
Freddy, don't poke me. Miss Honeychurch, your
brother's hurting me. Ow ! What about Mr.
Floyd's ten shillings ? Ow ! No, I don't see and
I never shall see why Miss What's-her-name should-
n't pay that bob for the driver."

"I had forgotten the driver," said Miss Bartlett,
reddening. "Thank you, dear, for reminding me.
A shilling was it? Can any one give me change
for half a crown?"

"I'll get it," said the young hostess, rising with
decision. "Cecil, give me that sovereign. No-
give me up that sovereign. I'll get Euphemia to
change it, and we'll start the whole thing again
from the beginning."

"Lucy — Lucy — what a nuisance I am!" pro-
tested Miss Bartlett, and followed her across the

A Room with a View

lawn. Lucy tripped ahead, simulating hilarity
When they were out of earshot Miss Bartleti
stopped her wails and said quite briskly: "Havi
you told him about him yet?"

"No, I haven'j,'' replied Lucy, and then could
have bitten her tongue for understanding so quickly
what her cousin meant. "Let me see — a sover-
eign's worth of silver."

She escaped into the kitchen. Miss Bartlett's
sudden transitions were too uncanny. It some
times seemed as if she planned every word sh<
spoke or caused to be spoken; as if all this worn
about cabs and change had been a ruse to surpris<
the soul.

"No, I haven't told Cecil or any one," she re
marked, when she returned. "I promised you '.
shouldn't. Here is your money — all shillings, ex
cept two half-crowns. Would you count it? Yoi
can settle your debt nicely now."

Miss Bartlctt was in the drawing-room, gazinf
at the photograph of St. John ascending, whicl
had been framed.

"How dreadful I" she murmured, "how more
than dreadful, if Mr. Vyse should come to heai
of it from some other source."

"Oh, no, Charlotte," said the girl, entering the
battle. "George Emerson is all right, and whal
other source is there?"

Miss Bartlett considered. "For instance, the
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Lucy Faced the External Situation

Iriver. I saw him looking through the bushes
it you. I remember he had a violet between his
teeth."

Lucy shuddered a little. "We shall get the silly
affair on our nerves if we aren't careful. How
could a Florentine cab-driver ever get hold of
Cecil?"

"We must think of every possibility."

"Oh, it's all right."

"Or perhaps old Mr. Emerson knows. In fact,
he is certain to know."

"I don't care if he does. I was grateful to you
for your letter, but even if the news does get round,
I think I can trust Cecil to laugh at it."

"To contradict it?"

"No, to laugh at it." But she knew in her heart
Chat she could not trust him, for he desired her
untouched.

"Very well, dear, you know best. Perhaps
gentlemen are different to what they were when
I was young. Ladies are certainly different."

"Now, Charlotte I" She struck at her playfully.
"You kind, anxious thing I What would you have
me do? E'rst you say, 'Don't tell'; and then you
ay, 'Tell. 1 Which is it to be? Quick!"

Miss Bartlett sighed. "I am no match for you

to conversation, dearest. I blush when I think

fow I interfered at Florence, and you so well able

to look after yourself, and so much cleverer in all

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A Room with a View

ways than I am. You will never forgive mc."

"Shall we go out, then. They will smash all
the china if we don't."

For the air rang with the shrieks of Minnie,
who was being scalped with a teaspoon.

"Dear, one moment — we may not have this
chance for a chat again. Have you seen the young
one yet?"

"Yes, I have."

"What happened?"

"We met at the Rectory."

"What line is he taking up?"

"No line. He talked about Italy, like any other
person. It is really all right. What advantage
would he get from being a cad, to put it bluntly?
I do wish I could make you see it my way. He
really won't be any nuisance, Charlotte."

"Once a cad, always a cad. That is my poor
opinion."

Lucy paused. "Cecil said one day — and I
thought it so profound — that there are two kinds
of cads — the conscious and the subconscious." She
paused again, to be sure of doing justice to Cecil's
profundity. Through the window she. saw Cecil
himself, turning over the pages of a novel. It
was a new one from Smith's library. Her mother
must have returned from the station.

"Once a cad, always a cad," droned Miss Bart-
lett.

"What I mean by subconscious is that Mr.
-11^-

Lucy Faced the External Situation

Emerson lost his head. I fell into all those violets,
and he was silly and surprised. I don't think we
ought to blame him very much. It makes such a
difference when you see a person with beautiful
things behind him unexpectedly. It really does;
it makes an enormous difference, and he lost his
head: he doesn't admire me, or any of that non-
sense, one straw. Freddy rather likes him, and
has asked him up here on Sunday, so you can judge
for yourself. He has improved; he doesn't always
look as if he's going to burst into tears. He is
a clerk in the General Manager's office at one of
the big railways — not a porter 1 and runs down to
his father for week-ends. Papa was to do with
journalism, but is rheumatic and has retired
There I Now for the garden." She took hold of
her guest by the arm. "Suppose we don't talk
about this silly Italian business any more. We
want you to have a nice restful visit at Windy
Corner, with no worriting."

Lucy thought this rather a good speech. The
reader may have detected an unfortunate slip in
it. Whether Miss Bartlett detected the slip one
cannot say, for it is impossible to penetrate into
the minds of elderly people. She might have
spoken further, but they were interrupted by the
:ntrance of her hostess. Explanations took place,
md in the midst of them Lucy escaped, the images
:hrobbing a little more vividly in her brain.

-225-

Chapter XV: The Disaster Within

THE Sunday after Miss Bartlett's arrival was
a glorious day, like most of the days of
that year. In the Weald, autumn ap-
proached, breaking up the green monotony of sum-
mer, touching the parks with the grey bloom of
mist, the beech-trees with russet, the oak-trees with
gold. Up on the heights, battalions of black pines
witnessed the change, themselves unchangeable.
Either country was spanned by a cloudless sky, and
in either arose the tinkle of church bells.

The garden of Windy Corners was deserted
except for a red book, which lay sunning itself
upon the gravel path. From the house came in-
coherent sounds, as of females preparing for wor-
ship. "The men say they won't go" — "Well, I
don't blame them" — "Minnie says, need she go?"
— "Tell her, no nonsense" — "Anne I Maryl
Hook me behind I" — "Dearest Lucia, may I tres-
pass upon you for a pin?" For Miss Bartlett had
announced that she at all events was one for church.

The sun rose higher on its journey, guided, not

by Phaethon, but by Apollo, competent, unswcrv-

, ing, divine. Its rays fell on the ladies whenever

they advanced towards the bedroom windows; on

The Disaster Within

Mr. Bcebe down at Summer Street as he smiled over
a letter from Miss Catharine Alan; on George
Emerson cleaning his father's boots; and lastly,
to complete the catalogue of memorable things, on
the red book mentioned previously. The ladies
move, Mr. Beebe moves, George moves, and move-
ment may engender shadow. But this book lies mo-
tionless, to be caressed all the morning by the sun
and to raise its covers slightly, as though acknowl-
edging the caress.

Presently Lucy steps out of the drawing-room
window. Her new cerise dress has been a failure,
and makes her look tawdry and wan. At her
throat is a garnet brooch, on her finger a ring set
with rubies — an engagement ring. Her eyes are
bent to the Weald. She frowns a little — not in
anger, but as a brave child frowns when he is try-
ing not to cry. In all that expanse no human eye
is looking at her, and she may frown unrebuked
and measure the spaces that yet survive between

Apollo and the western hills.

"Lucyl Lucy! What's that book? Who's

been taking a book out of the shelf and leaving it

about to spoil?"

"It's only the library book that Cecil's been

reading."

"But pick it up, and don't stand idling there like

a flamingo."

Lucy picked up the book and glanced at the title

listlessly, Under a Loggia. She no longer read
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A Room with a View

novels herself, devoting all her spare time to solid
literature in the hope of catching Cecil up. It
was dreadful how little she knew, and even when
she thought she knew a thing, like the Italian
painters, she found she had forgotten it. Only
this morning she had confused Francesco Francis
with Piero della Francesca, and Cecil had said,
"What! you aren't forgetting your Italy already?"
And this too had lent anxiety to her eyes when she
saluted the dear view and the dear garden in the
foreground, and above them, scarcely conceivable
elsewhere, the dear sun.

"Lucy — have you a sixpence for Minnie and a
shilling for yourself?"

She hastened in to her mother, who was rapidly
working herself into a Sunday fluster.

"It's a special collection — r forget what for.
I do beg, no vulgar clinking in the plate with half-
pennies; see that Minnie has a nice bright sixpence.
Where is the child? Minnie I That book's all
warped. (Gracious, how plain you look!) Put
it under the Atlas to press. Minnie I"

"Oh, Mrs. Honey'church — " from the upper
regions.

"Minnie, don't be late. Here conies the horse"
— it was always the horse, never the carriage.
"Where's Charlotte? Run up and hurry her.
Why is she so long? She had nothing to do. She
never brings anything but blouses. Poor Charlotte
— How I do detest blouses! Minnie I"
-11%-

The Disaster Within

Paganism is infectious — more infectious than
diphtheria or piety — and the Rector's niece was
taken to church protesting. As usual, she didn't
see why. Why shouldn't she sit in the sun with
the young men? The young men, who had now
appeared, mocked her with ungenerous words.
Mrs. Honeychurch defended orthodoxy, and in the
midst of the confusion Miss Bartlett, dressed in the
very height of the fashion, came strolling down the
stairs.

"Dear Marian, I am very sorry, but I have no
small change — nothing but sovereigns and half-
crowns. Could any one give me — "

"Yes, easily. Jump in. Gracious me, how
smart you look I What a lovely frock! You put
us all to shame."

"If I did not wear my best rags and tatters now,
when should I wear them?" said Miss Bartlett
reproachfully. She got into the victoria and placed
bersclf with her back to the horse. The necessary
uproar ensued, and then they drove off.

"Good-bye! Be good!" called out Cecil.

Lucy bit her lip, for the tone was sneering. On
the subject of "church and so on" they had had
rather an unsatisfactory conversation. He had
aid that people ought to overhaul themselves, and
ihe did not want to overhaul herself; she did not
bow how it was done. Honest orthodoxy C* "'
respected, but he always assumed that ho
Die result of a spiritual crisis; he cou\d not
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A Room with a View

, it as a natural birthright, that might grow heaven'
! ward like flowers. All that he said on this subject
' pained her, though he exuded tolerance froir
i every pore; somehow the Emersons were different.
She saw the Emersons after church. There was
a line of carriages down the road, and the Honey-
church vehicle happened to be opposite Cissie Villa.
To save time, they walked over the green to it, and
found father and son smoking in the garden.

"Introduce me," said her mother. "Unless the
young man considers that he knows me already.'
He probably did; but Lucy ignored the Sacrec
Lake and introduced them formally. Old Mr
Emerson claimed her with much warmth, and sail
how glad he was that she was going to be married
She said yes, she was glad too; and then, as Mis
Bar tie tt and Minnie were lingering behind with Mr
Beebe, she turned the conversation to a less dis
turbing topic, and asked him how he Liked his nev
house.

"Very much," he replied, but there was a not
of offence in his voice; she had never known hin
offended before. He added: "We find, though
that the Miss Alans were coming, and that we hav
turned them out. Women mind such a thing,
am very much upset about it."

"I believe that there was some misunderstand
ing," said Mrs. Honeychurch uneasily.

"Our landlord was told that we should be a dif
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The Disaster Within

fcrent type of person," said George, who seemed
disposed to carry the matter further. "He thought
we should be artistic. He is disappointed."

"And I wonder whether we ought to write to
the Miss Alans and offer to give it up. What do
you think?" He appealed to Lucy.

"Oh, stop now you have come," said Lucy lightly.
She must avoid censuring Cecil. For it was on
Cecil that the little episode turned, though his
name was never mentioned.

"So George says. He says that the Miss Alans
must go to the wall. Yet it does seem so unkind."

"There is only a certain amount of kindness in
the world," said George, watching the sunlight
Bash on the panels of the passing carriages.

"YesI" exclaimed Mrs. Honeychurch. "That's
exactly what I say. Why all this twiddling and
twaddling over two Miss Alans?"

"There is a certain amount of kindness, just as
there is a certain amount of light," he continued inf. ■
measured tones. "We cast a shadow on something
wherever we stand, and it is no good moving from
place to place to save things; because the shadow
always follows. Choose a place where you won't
harm — yes, choose a place where you won't do
very much harm, and stand in It for all you are
worth, facing the sunshine."

"Oh, Mr. Emerson, I see you're clever!"

"Eh—?"

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A Room with a View

"I see you're going to be clever. I hope you
didn't go behaving like that to poor Freddy."

George's eyes laughed, and Lucy suspected that
Jie and her mother would get on rather well.

"No, I didn't," he said. "He behaved that way
to me. It is his philosophy. Only he starts life
with it; and I have tried the Note of Interrogation
first."

"What do you mean? No, never mind what
you mean. Don't explain. He looks forward to
seeing you this afternoon. Do you play tennis?
Do you mind tennis on Sunday — ?"

"George mind tennis on Sunday! George, after
his education, distinguish between Sunday — "

"Very well, George doesn't mind tennis on Sun-
day. No more do I. That's settled. Mr. Em-
erson, if you could come with your son we should
be so pleased."

He thanked her, but the walk sounded rather
far; he could only potter about in these days.

She turned to George: "And then he wants to
give up his house to the Miss Alans."

"I know," said George, and put his arm round
his father's neck. The kindness that Mr. Beebe
and Lucy had always known to exist in him came
out suddenly, like sunlight touching a vast land-
scape — a touch of the morning sun? She remem-
; bered that in all his perversities he had never
spoken against affection.

Miss Bartlett approached.
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The Disaster Within

"You know our cousin, Mrss Bartlett," sai$l Mrs.
rloneychurch pleasantly. "You met her wjth my
laughter in Florence."

"Yes, indeed!" said the old man, and made as if
be would come out of the garden to meet the lady.
Miss Bartlett promptly got into the victoria. Thus
intrenched, she emitted a formal bow. It was the
Pension Bertolini again, the dining-table with the
decanters of water and wine. It was the o\(\\ old
sattle of the room with the view.

George did not respond to the bow. Like any
joy, he blushed and was ashamed; he knew that the
:haperon remembered. He said: "I — I'll come
jp to tennis if I can manage it," and went into the
louse. Perhaps anything that he did would have
Jeased Lucy, but his awkwardness went strait to
aer heart; men were not gods after all, but ( # hu-
nan and as clumsy as girls; even men might suffer
From unexplained desires, and need help. To one
af her upbringing, and of her destination, the
weakness of men was a truth unfamiliar, but she
had surmised it at Florence, when George threw
her photographs into the River Arno. -n

"George, don't go," cried his father, who thought
it a great treat for people if his son would t a lk to
them. "George has been in such good spirits to-
day, and I am sure he will end by coming up this
tfternoon."

Lucy caught her cousin's eye. Something in its

mute appeal made her reckless. "Yes," %b.t ^ai?*

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>

A Room with a View

raising, her voice, "I do hope he will." Then
went to the carriage and murmured, "The old r
hasn't been told; I knew it was all right." N
Honeychurch followed her, and they drove aw

Satisfactory that' Mr. Emerson had not been t
of the Florence escapade; yet Lucy's spirits sho
not have leapt up as if she had sighted the rampa
of heaven. Satisfactory; yet surely she greetec
with disproportionate joy. All the way home
horses? hoofs sang a tune to her: "He has i
told, he has not told." Her brain expanded
melody: "He has not told his father — to wh
he tells all things. It was not an exploit. He <
not laugh at me when I had gone." She raised 1
hand to her cheek. "He does not love me. f
Howtferrible if he did I But he has not told. ]
will ftbt tell."

She longed to shout the words: "It is all rig
It's a secret between us two for ever. Cecil v
never hear." She was even glad that Miss Ba
lett had made her promise secrecy, that last dj
evening at Florence, when they had knelt packing
his rjgpm. The secret, big or little, was guard'
Only three English people knew of it in the wor

Thus she interpreted her joy. She greel
Cecil with unusual radiance, because she felt
safe. As he helped her out of the carriage, ;
said:

"The Emersons have been so nice. Geoi
Emerson has improved enormously."

The Disaster Within

"Oh, how are my proteges?" asked Cecil, who
took no real interest in them, and had long since
forgotten his resolution to bring them to Windy
Corner for educational purposes.
"Proteges I" she exclaimed with some warmth, f i
For the only relationship which Cecil conceived j /
was feudal : that of protector and protected. He j
had no glimpse of the comradeship after which the; /
girl's soul yearned.

"You shall see for yourself how your proteges'
are. George Emerson is coming up this afternoon.
He is a most interesting man to talk to. Only
don't — " She nearly said, "Don't protect him."
But the bell was ringing for lunch, and, as often
happened, Cecil had paid no great attention to her
remarks. Charm, not argument, was to be her
forte.

Lunch was a cheerful meal. Generally Lucy was
depressed at meals. Some one had to be soothed —
either Cecil or Miss Bartlett or a Being not visible
to the mortal eye — a Being who whispered to her
soul : "It will not last, this cheerfulness. In Janu- \
ary you must go to London to entertain the grand-
children of celebrated men." But to-day she felt
ihe had received a guarantee. Her mother would
always sit there, her brother here. The sun, though
it had moved a little since the morning, would never
be hidden behind the western hills. After luncheon
they asked her to play. She had seen Gluck's Ar~
tide that year, and played from memory tioic tt
-*35-

A Room with a View

of the enchanted garden — the music to which Re-
naud approaches, beneath the light of an eternal
dawn, the music that never gains, never wanes, but
ripples for ever like the tideless seas of fairyland.
Such music is not for the piano, and her audience
began to get restive, and Cecil, sharing the discon-
tent, called out: "Now play us the other garden —
the one in Parsifal."

She closed the instrument.

"Not very dutiful," said her mother's voice.

Fearing that she had offended Cecil, she turned
quickly round. There George was. He had crept
in without interrupting her.

"Oh, I had no idea I" she exclaimed, getting very
red; and then, without a word of greeting, she re-
opened the piano. Cecil should have the Parsifal,
and anything else that he liked.

"Our performer has changed her mind," said
Miss Bartlett, perhaps implying, she will play the
music to Mr. Emerson. Lucy did not know what
to do nor even what she wanted to do. She played
a few bars of the Flower Maidens' song very badly
and then she stopped.

"I vote tennis," said Freddy, disgusted at the
scrappy entertainment.

"Yes, so do I." Once more she closed the un-
fortunate piano. "I vote you have a men's four."

"All right."

"Not for me, thank you," said Cecil. "I will
not spoil the set." He never realized that it may i

The Disaster Within

be an act of kindness in a bad player to make up
a fourth.

"Oh, come along Cecil. I'm bad, Floyd's rotten,
and so I dare say's Emerson."
George corrected him: "I am not bad." — — — —
One looked down one's nose at this. "Then
certainly I won't play," said Cecil, while Miss Bart-
lett, under the impression that she was snubbing
George, added: "I agree with you, Mr. Vyse. You
had much better not play. Much better not."

Minnie, rushing in where Cecil feared to tread,
announced that she would play. "I shall miss every
ball anyway, so what does it matter?" But Sunday
intervened and stamped heavily upon the kindly
suggestion.

"Then it will have to be Lucy," said Mrs. Honey-
church; "you must fall back on Lucy. There is no
other way out of it. Lucy, go and change your
frock."

Lucy's Sabbath was generally of this amphibious
nature. She kept it without hypocrisy in the morn-
ing, and broke it without reluctance in the afternoon.
As she changed her frock, she wondered whether
Cecil was sneering at her; really she must overhaul
herself and settle everything up before she married
him.

Mr. Floyd was her partner. She liked music, but
how much better tennis seemed. How much
better to run about in comfortable clothes
sit at the piano and feel girt under the %rtt
-237-

A Room with a View

more music appeared to her the employment of a
child. George served, and surprised her by his
anxiety to win. She remembered how he had sighed
among the tombs at Santa Croce because things
wouldn't fit; how after the death of that obscure
Italian he had leant over the parapet by the Arno
and said to her: "I shall want to live, I tell you."
He wanted to live now, to win at tennis, to stand for
all he was worth in the sun — in the sun which had
begun to decline and was shining in her eyes; and he
did win.

Ah, how beautiful the Weald looked! The hills
stood out above its radiance, as Fiesole stands above
the Tuscan Plain, and the South Downs, if one
chose, were the mountains of Carrara. She might
be forgetting her Italy, but she was noticing more
things in her England. One could play a new game
with the view, and try to find In its innumerable
folds some town or village that would do for Flor-
ence. Ah, how beautiful the Weald looked!

But now Cecil claimed her. He chanced to be in
a lucid critical mood, and would not sympathize
with exaltation. He had been rather a nuisance
all through the tennis, for the novel that he was
reading was so bad that he was obliged to read
it aloud to others. He would stroll round the pre-
cincts of the court and call out: "I say, listen to this,
Lucy. Three split infinitives." "Dreadful 1" said
Lucy, and missed her stroke. When they had fin-
ished their set, he still went on reading; there was

■i

The Disaster Within

some murder scene, and really every one must listen
to it. Freddy and Mr. Floyd were obliged u t hunt
for a lost ball in the laurels, but the otl ,r two
acquiesced.

"The scene is laid in Florence."
"What fun, Cecil! Read away. Come, Mr.
Emerson, sit down after all your energy." She
"forgiven" George, as she put it, and she made
lint of being pleasant to him.
.e jumped over the net and sat down 'it her
asking: "You — and are you tired?"
if course I'm not!"
io you mind being beaten?"
e was going to answer, "No," when it struck
at she did mind, so she answered, "Yes."
added merrily, "I don't see you're such ? splen-
did player, though. The light was behin d you,
and it was in my eyes."
never said I was."
'by, you did 1"
ou didn't attend."

ou said — oh, don't go in for accuracy at
this house. We all exaggerate, and we get very
angry with people who don't."

'The scene is laid in Florence," repeated Cecil,

with an upward note.

Lucy recollected herself.

" 'Sunset. Leonora was speeding — ' "

Lucy interrupted. "Leonora? Is Leonora the

heroine? Who's the book by?"

-239-

t

■

A Room with a View

^> "Joseph Emery Prank. 'Sunset. Leonora was
speed"\g across the square. Pray the saints she
mighti ''lot arrive too late. Sunset — the sunset of
Italy. S Under Orcagna's Loggia — the Loggia de'
Lanzi, as we sometimes call it now — ' "
___ Lucy burst into laughter. " 'Joseph Emery
Prank' indeed! Why it's Miss Lavish! It's Miss
Lavish's novel, and she's publishing it under some-
body fuse's name."

"wi 'o may Miss Lavish be?"

"Oy a dreadful person — Mr. Emerson, you re- .
member Miss Lavish?" Excited by her pleasant
afternoon, she clapped her hands.

George looked up. "Of course I do. I saw her
the day I arrived at Summer Street. It was she
who t«ld me that you lived here."

"Weren't you pleased?" She meant — "to see
Miss "ravish," but when he bent down to the grass
without replying, it struck her that she could mean
something else. She watched his head, which was
almost resting against her knee, and she thought that .
the ears were reddening. "No wonder the novel's .
bad," she added. "I never liked Miss Lavish. ,
But I Suppose one ought to read it as one's met ,
her." .

"Al(,modern books are bad," said Cecil, who was ,,
annoyed at her inattention, and vented his annoyance ■■
on literature. "Every one writes for money in »
these days." .

"Oh, Cecil— I"

-2*0-

The Disaster Within

"It is so. I will inflict Joseph Emery Frank on
you no longer."

Cecil, this afternoon, seemed such a twittering
sparrow. The ups and downs in his voice were
noticeable, but they did not affect her. She had
dwelt amongst melody and movement, and her
nerves refused to answer to the clang of his.
Leaving him to be annoyed, she gazed at the black
head again. She did not want to stroke it, but she
saw herself wanting to stroke it; the sensation was
curious.

"How do you like this view of ours, Mr. Emer-
son ?"

"I never notice much difference in views."— - ■
"What do you mean?"

"Because they're all alike. Because all that mat-
ters in them is distance and air."

"H'm!" said Cecil, uncertain whether the remark
was striking or not.

'My father" — he looked up at her (and he was
a little flushed) — "says that there is only one per-
fect view — the view of the sky straight over our
heads, and that all these views on earth are but

bungled copies of it."

"I expect your father has been reading Dante,"
said Cecil, Angering the novel, which alone permit-
ted him to lead the conversation.
"He told us another day that views are really
■ crowds — crowds of trees and houses and hills — and
1 we bound to resemble each other, like Yuamaxv ttww&«
J -241-

A Room with a View

— and that the power they have over us is some-
times supernatural, for the same reason."

Lucy's lips parted.

"For a crowd is more than the people who make
it up. Something gets added to it — no one knows
how— just as something has got added to those
hills."

He pointed with his racquet to the South Downs. .

"What a splendid idea I" she murmured. "I
shall enjoy hearing your father talk again. I'm so ,
sorry he's not so well."

"No, he isn't well."

"There's an absurd account of a view in this
book," said Cecil.

,- "Also that men fall into two classes — those who
; forget views and those who remember them, even in ;
I small rooms."
^ • "Mr. Emerson, have you any brothers or sisters ?" '

"None. Why?" \

"You spoke of 'us.' " '.

"My mother, I was meaning."

Cecil closed the novel with a bang.

"Oh, Cecil — how you made me jump!"

"I will inflict Joseph Emery Prank on you no,
longer."

"I can just remember us all three going into
the country for the day and seeing as far as Hind- .
head. It is the first thing that I remember." L .

Cecil got up; the man was ill-bred — he hadn't,
put on his coat after tennis — he didn't do. He
-141-

The Disaster Within

would have strolled away if Lucy had not stopped
him.

"Cecil, do read the.thing about the view."

"Not while Mr. Emerson is here to entertain us."

"No — read away. I think nothing's funnier than
to hear silly things read out loud. If Mr. Emer-
son thinks us frivolous, he can go."

This struck Cecil as subtle, and pleased him. It
put their visitor in the position of a prig. Some-
what mollified, he sat down again.

"Mr. Emerson, go and find tennis balls." She
opened the book. Cecil must have his reading and
anything else that he liked. But her attention wan-
dered to George's mother, who^according to Mr.
Eager — had been murdered in the sight of God —
according to her son — had seen as far as Hind-
head.

"Am I really to go ?" asked George.

"No, of course not really," she answered.

"Chapter two," said Cecil, yawning. "Find me
chapter two, if it isn't bothering you."

Chapter two was found, and she glanced at its
opening sentences.

She thought she had gone mad.

"Here — hand me the book."

She heard her voice saying: "It isn't worth

J reading — -it's too silly to read — I never saw such
cubbish — it oughtn't to be allowed to be printed."
He took the book from her.
" 'Leonora,' " he read, " 'sat pensive »A iN-af*-
-243-

A Room with a View

Before her lay the rich champaign of Tuscany, dot- >
ted over with many a smiling village. The season t
was spring.' "

Miss Lavish knew, somehow, and had printed the :
past in draggled prose, for Cecil to read and for :
George to hear.

" 'A golden haze,' " he read. He read; " 'Afar
off the towers of Florence, while the bank on which
she sat was carpeted with violets. All unobserved
Antonio stole up behind her — ' "

Lest Cecil should see her face she turned to
George and she saw his face.

He read: " 'There came from his lips no wordy
protestation such as formal lovers use. No elo-
quence was his, nor did he suffer from the lack of
it. He simply enfolded her in his manly arms.' "
^-, There was a silence.

"This isn't the passage I wanted," he informed
them. "There is another much funnier, further
on." He turned over the leaves.

"Should we go in to tea?" said Lucy, whose voice
remained steady.

She led the way up the garden, Cecil following
her, George last. She thought a disaster was
averted. But when they entered the shrubbery it
came. The book, as if it had not worked mischief
enough, had been forgotten, and Cecil must go back
for it; and George, who loved passionately, must
blunder against her in the narrow path.
-244-

The Disaster Within

"No — " she gasped, and, for the second time, was
kissed by him.

As if no more was possible, he slipped back;
Cecil rejoined her; they reached the upper lawn
alone.

Chapter XVI : Lying to George

BUT Lucy had developed since the spring-
That is to say, she was now better able to
stifle the emotions of which the conventions
and the world disapprove. Though the danger
was greater, she was not shaken by deep sobs. She
said to Cecil, "I am not coming in to tea — tell
mother — I must write some letters," and went up
■ to her room. Then she prepared for action. Love
felt and returned, love which our bodies exact and
our hearts have transfigured, love which is the most
real thing that we shall ever meet, reappeared now
as the world's enemy, and she must stifle it.

She sent for Miss Bartlett.

The contest lay not between love and duty. Per-
haps there never is such a contest. It lay between
the real and the pretended, and Lucy's first aim was
to defeat herself. As her brain clouded over, as
the memory of the views grew dim and the words of
the book died away, she returned to her old shibbo-
leth of nerves. She "conquered her breakdown."
Tampering with the truth, she forgot that the truth
had ever been. Remembering that she was en-
gaged to Cecil, she compelled herself to confused
remembrances of George; he was nothing to her;
he never had been anything; he had behaved abom-

Lying to George

inably; she had never encouraged him. The arm-
our of falsehood is subtly wrought out of darkness,
and hides a man not only from others, but from
his own soul. In a few moments Lucy was equipped
for battle.

"Something too awful has happened," she began,
as soon as her cousin arrived. "Do you know any-
thing about Miss Lavish's novel?"

Miss Bartlett looked surprised, and said that she
had not read the book, nor known that it was pub-
lished; Eleanor was a reticent woman at heart.

"There is a scene in it. The hero and heroine
make love. Do you know about that?"
"Dear—?"

"Do you know about it, please?" she repeated.
"They are on a hillside, and Florence is in the dis-
tance."

"My good Lucia, I am all at sea. I know noth-
ing about it whatever."

"There are violets. I cannot believe it is a co-
incidence. Charlotte, Charlotte, how could you
have told her? I have thought before speaking;
it must be you."

"Told her what?" she asked, with growing agi-
tation.

"About that dreadful afternoon in February."
Miss Bartlett was genuinely moved. "Oh, Lucy,
dearest girl — she hasn't put that in her book?"
Lucy nodded.

"Not so that one could recognize it?"
-H7-

A Room with a View

"Yes."

"Then never — never — never more shall Eleanor^
Lavish be a friend of mine."

"So you did tell?"

"I did just happen — when I had tea with her at '
Rome — in the course of conversation — "

"But Charlotte— what about the promise you _
gave me when we were packing? Why did you
tell Miss Lavish, when you wouldn't even let me tell
mother?" '_

"I will never forgive Eleanor. She has betrayed r
my confidence."

"Why did you tell her, though? This is a most
serious thing."

Why does any one tell anything? The question
is eternal, and it was not surprising that Miss Bart-
lett should only sigh faintly in response. She had
done wrong — she admitted it, she only hoped that
she had not done harm ; she had told Eleanor in the
strictest confidence.

Lucy stamped with irritation.

"Cecil happened to read out the passage aloud
to me and to Mr. Emerson; it upset Mr. Emerson
and he insulted me again. Behind Cecil's back.
Ugh! Is it possible that men are such brutes?
Behind Cecil's back as we were walking up the gar-
den."

Miss Bartlett burst into self-accusations and
regrets.

"What is to be done now? Can you tell me?"

Lying to George

"Oh, Lucy — I shall never forgive myself, never
to my dying day. Fancy if your prospects — "

"I know," said Lucy, wincing at the word. "I
see now why you wanted me to tell Cecil, and what
you meant by 'some other source.' You knew that
you had told Miss Lavish, and that she was not
reliable."

It was Miss Bartlett's turn to wince.

"However," said the girl, despising her cousin's
shiftiness, "what's done's done. You have put me
in a most awkward position. How am I to get out
of it?"

Miss Bartlett could not think. The days of her
energy were over. She was a visitor, not a chap-
eron, and a discredited visitor at that. She stood
with clasped hands while the girl worked herself
into the necessary rage.

"He must — that man must have such a setting
down that he won't forget. And who's to give it
him? I can't tell mother now — owing to you.
Nor Cecil, Charlotte, owing to you. I am caught
up every way. I think I shall go mad. I have no
one to help me. That's why I've sent for you.
What's wanted is a man with a whip."

Miss Bartlett agreed: one wanted a man with a
whip.

"Yes — but it's no good agreeing. What's to be
done? We women go maundering on. What does
a girl do when she comes across a cad?"

"I always said he was a cad, dear. Gvv* -cos.
-249-

A Room with a View

credit for that, at all events. From the very fir»t||
moment — when he said his father was having t£
bath." J

"Oh, bother the credit and who's been right or
wrong! We've both made a muddle of it--
George Emerson is still down the garden there, amL
is he to be left unpunished, or isn't he? I want to
know."

Miss Bartlett was absolutely helpless. Her own
exposure had unnerved her, and thoughts were col-
liding painfully in her brain. She moved feebly to
the window, and tried to detect the cad's white
flannels among the laurels.

"You were ready enough at the Bertolini when
you rushed me off to Rome. Can't you speak again
to him now?"

"Willingly would I move heaven and earth — "

"I want something more definite," said Lucy
contemptuously. "Will you speak to him? It is
the least you can do, surely, considering it all hap-
pened because you broke your word."

"Never again shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of
mine."

Really, Charlotte was outdoing herself.

"Yes or no, please; yes or no."

"It is the kind of thing that only a gentleman
can settle."

George Emerson was coming up the garden with
a tennis ball in his hand.

"Very well," said Lucy, with an angry gesture.
-150-

Lying to George

'No one will help me. I will speak to him myself."
And immediately she realized that this was what
her cousin had intended all along.

"Hullo, Emerson 1" called Freddy from below.
'Found the lost ball? Good man! Want any
ha?" And there was an irruption from the house
on to the terrace.

"Oh, Lucy, but that is brave of you 1 I admire
you — "

I They had gathered round George, who beckoned,
[ she felt, over the rubbish, the sloppy thoughts, the
furtive yearnings that were beginning to cumber her
soul. Her anger faded at the sight of him. Ah!
the Emersons were fine people in their way. She
had to subdue a rush in her blood before say-
ing:

"Freddy has taken him into the dining-room.
The others are going down the garden. Come.
Let us get this over quickly. Come. I want you
in the room, of course,"

"Lucy, do you mind doing it?"
"How can you ask such a ridiculous question?"
"Poor Lucy — " She stretched out her hand.
"I seem to bring nothing but misfortune wherever
I go." Lucy nodded. She remembered their last
evening at Florence — the packing, the candle, the
shadow of Miss Bartlett's toque on the door. She
was not to be trapped by pathos a second time.
Eluding her cousin's caress, she led the way down-
itairs.

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A Room with a View

"Try the jam," Freddy was saying. "The jam
jolly good."

George, looking big and dishevelled, was pacin
up and down the dining-room. As she entered li
stopped, and said:

"No — nothing to eat."

"You go down to the others," said Lucy; "Cha
lotte and I will give Mr. Emerson all he want
Where's mother?"

"She's started on her Sunday writing. She's :
the drawing-room."

"That's all right. You go away."

He went off singing.

Lucy sat down at the table. Miss Bartlett, wfc
was thoroughly frightened, took up a book an
pretended to read.

She would not be drawn into an elaborate speed
She just said: "I can't have it, Mr. Emerson,
cannot even talk to you. Go out of this house, an
never come into it again as long as I live here"-
flushing as she spoke and pointing to the door. "
hate a row. Go please."

"What—"

"No discussion."

"But I can't — "

She shook her head. "Go, please. I do nc
want to call in Mr. Vyse."

"You don't mean," he said, absolutely ignorin
Miss Bartlett — "you don't mean that you are goin
/ to marry that man?"

— 2J1-

Lying to George

The line was unexpected.

She shrugged her shoulders, as if his vulgarity
vearied her. "You are merely ridiculous," she
laid quietly.

Then his words rose gravely over hers: "You
annot live with Vysc. He's only for an acquain-
tance. He is for society and cultivated talk. He [ I
ihould know no one intimately, least of all a I /
woman." I 1

It was a new light on Cecil's character. »

"Have you ever talked to Vyse without feeling
tired?"
"I can scarcely discuss — "

"No, but have you ever? He is the sort who
are all right so long as they keep to things — n^
books, pictures — but kill when they come to people. 7
That's why I'll speak out through all this muddle
even now. It's shocking enough to lose you in any
case, but generally a man must deny himself joy, and
I would have held back if your Cecil had been a
different person. I would never have let myself go.
But I saw him first in the National Gallery, when he
winced because my father mispronounced the names
of great painters. Then he brings us here, and we
find it is to play some silly trick on a kind neighbour.
That is the man all over — playing tricks on people, I
on the most sacred form of life that he can find. J
Next, I meet you together, and find him protecting
and teaching you and your mother to be shocked,
when it was for you to settle whether you w*"
-2J3-

A Room with a View

shocked or no. Cecil all over again. He daren (
let a woman decide. He's the type who's kej
Europe back for a thousand years. Every nu ,
ment of his life he's forming you, telling you what'
charming or amusing or ladylike, telling you whJ| j
a man thinks womanly; and you, you of all women
listen to his voice instead of to your own. So i
was at the Rectory, when I met you both again; i i
it has been the whole of this afternoon. Therefor
— not 'therefore I kissed you,' because the bod
made me do that, and I wish to goodness I had mora
self-control. I'm not ashamed. I don't apologize^
But it has frightened you, and you may not have
noticed that I love you. Or would you have told
me to go, and dealt with a tremendous thing so
lightly ? But therefore — therefore I settled to
fight him."

Lucy thought of a very good remark.

"You say Mr. Vyse wants me to listen to him*
Mr. Emerson. Pardon me for suggesting that youl
have caught the habit."

And he took the shoddy reproof and touched ic
into immortality. He said:

"Yes, I have," and sank down as if suddenly
weary. "I'm the same kind of brute at bottom.
This desire to govern a woman — it lies very deep,
and men and women must fight it together before
they shall enter the garden. But I do love you —
surely in a better way than he does." He thought.
"Yes— really in a better way. I want you to have
-»54-

Lying to George

>ur own thoughts even when I hold you in my .'
rms." He stretched them towards her. "Lucy, * !
e quick — there's no time for us to talk now — 1 j
ome to me as you came in the spring, and after-
wards I will be gentle and explain. I have cared
br you since that man died. I cannot live without
ou. 'No good,' I thought; 'she is marrying some
me else' ; but I meet you again when all the world
i glorious water and sun. As you came through
be wood I saw that nothing else mattered. I
ailed. I wanted to live and have my chance *of

<!■"

"And Mr. Vyse?" said Lucy, who kept com-
mendably calm. "Does he not matter? That I
lore Cecil and shall be his wife shortly? A de-
tail of no importance, I suppose?"

But he stretched his arms over the table towards
her.

"May I ask what you intend to gain by this ex-
hibition?"

He said: "It is our last chance. I shall do all
that I can." And as if he had done all else, he
| turned to Miss Bartlett, who sat like some portent
'against the skies of the evening. "You wouldn't
«op us this second time if you understood," he
Mid. "I have been into the dark, and I am going
Back into it, unless you will try to understand."

Her long, narrow head drove backwards and for-
tards, as though demolishing some invisible ob-
stacle. She did not answer.
-2S5-

A Room with a View

'"It is being young," he said quietly, picking up
his racquet from the floor and preparing to go.
"It is being certain that Lucy cares for me really.
It is that love and youth matter intellectually."

In silence the two women watched htm. Hi)
last remark, they knew, was nonsense, but was he
going after it or not? Would not he, the cad, the
charlatan, attempt a more dramatic finish? No-
He was apparently content. He left them, care-
fully closing the front-door; and when they looked
through the hall window, they saw him go up the
drive and begin to climb the slopes of withered
fern behind the house. Their tongues were loosed,
and they burst into stealthy rejoicings.

"Oh, Lucia — come back here — oh, what an aw-
ful man!"

Lucy had no reaction — at least, not yet. "Well,
he amuses me," she said. "Either I'm mad, or
else he is, and I'm inclined to think it's the latter.
One more fuss through with you, Charlotte.
Many thanks. I think, though, that this is the
last. My admirer will hardly trouble me again.

And Miss Bartlett, too, essayed the roguish:

"Well, it isn't every one who could boast such
a conquest, dearest, is it? Oh, one oughtn't to
laugh, really. It might have been very serious-
But you were so sensible and brave — so unlike the
girls of my day."

"Let's go down to them."

Cut, once in the open air, she paused. Some

Lying to George

emotion — pity, terror, love, but the emotion was

strong — seized her, and she was aware of autumn.

■H Summer was ending, and the evening brought her

odours of decay, the more pathetic because they .
" were reminiscent of spring. That something or \
" other mattered intellectually? A leaf, violently ;
™ agitated, danced past her, while other leaves lay ;
motionless. That the earth was hastening to re- I
"l enter darkness, and the shadows of those trees ;
to creep over Windy Corner? j

"Hullo, Lucy I There's still light enough for
another set, if you two'Il hurry."
"Mr. Emerson has had to go."
"What a nuisance I That spoils the four. I
say, Cecil, do play, do, there's a good chap. It's
Floyd's last day. Do play tennis with us, just this
once."

Cecil's voice came: "My dear Freddy, I am no
athlete. As you well remarked this very morn-
ing, 'There are some chaps who are no good for
anything but books' ; I plead guilty to being such a
chap, and will not inflict myself on you."

The scales fell from Lucy's eyes. How had she
itood Cecil for a moment? He was absolutely \
intolerable, and the same evening she broke off her .
engagement.

-257-

Chapter XVII : Lying to Cecil

HE was bewildered. He had nothing to say
He was not even angry, but stood, with s
glass of whiskey between his hands, trying
to think what had led her to such a conclusion.

She had chosen the moment before bed, when
in accordance with their bourgeois habit, she alway
dispensed drinks to the men. Freddy and Mr
Floyd were sure to retire with their glasses, whil
Cecil invariably lingered, sipping at his while sh
locked up the sideboard.

"I am very sorry about it," she said; "I hav<
carefully thought things over. We are too differ
ent. I must ask you to release me, and try to for
get that there ever was such a foolish girl."

It was a suitable speech, but she was more angr
than sorry, and her voice showed it.

"Different — how — how — "

"I haven't had a really good education, for on<
thing," she continued, still on her knees by thi
sideboard. "My Italian trip came too late, anc
I am forgetting all that I learnt there. I shal
never be able to talk to your friends, or behavt
as a wife of yours should."

"I don't understand you. You aren't like your-
self. You're tired. Lucy."
-IS*-

Lying to Cecil

"Tired I" she retorted, kindling at once. "That
s exactly like you. You always think women don't
nean what they say."

"Well, you sound tirid, as if something has wor-
ried you."

"What if I do? It doesn't prevent me from
realizing the truth. I can't marry you, and you
will thank me for saying so some day."

"You had that bad headache yesterday — All
right" — for she had exclaimed indignantly: "I see
it's much more than headaches. But give me a
moment's time." He closed his eyes. "You must
excuse me if I say stupid things, but my brain has
gone to pieces. Part of it lives three minutes
back, when I was sure that you loved me, and the
other part — I find it difficult — I am likely to say
the wrong thing."

It struck her that he was not behaving so badly,
and her irritation increased. She again desired a
struggle, not a discussion. To bring on the crisis,
she said:

"There are days when one sees clearly, and this
is one of them. Things must come to a breaking-
point some time, and it happens to be to-day. If
you want to know, quite a little thing decided me
to speak to you — when you wouldn't play tennis
with Freddy."

"I never do play tennis," said Cecil, painfully
bewildered; "I never could play. I don't under-
stand a word you say."

-259-

A Room with a View

"You can play well enough to make up a four. ^
I thought it abominably selfish of you." j,

"No, I can't — well, never mind the tennis. Why r
couldn't you — couldn't you have warned me if ; .
you felt anything wrong? Yea talked of our wed-i
ding at lunch — at least, you let me talk."

"I knew you wouldn't understand," said Lucy ■-
quite crossly. "I might have known there would
have been these dreadful explanations. Of course, ±
it isn't the tennis — that was only the last straff a
to all I have been feeling for weeks. Surely it was .
better not to speak until I felt certain." She de-
veloped this position. "Often before I have won-
dered if I was fitted for your wife — for instance,,
in London; and are you fitted to be my husband?
I don't think so. You don't like Freddy, nor my
mother. There was always a lot against our en-
gagement, Cecil, but all our relations seemed
pleased, and we met so often, and it was no good
mentioning it until — well, until all things came to a
point. They have to-day. I see clearly. I must
speak. That's all."

"I cannot think you were right," said Cecil gently.
"I cannot tell why, but though all that you say
sounds true, I feel that you are not treating me
fairly. It's all too horrible."

"What's the good of a scene?"

"No good. But surely I have a right to hear
a little more."

He put down his glass and opened die window.
-160-

Lying to Cecil

from where she knelt, jangling her keys, she could
lee a slit of darkness, and, peering into it, as if
t would tell him that "little more," his long,
thoughtful face.

"Don't open the window; and you'd better draw
the curtain, too; Freddy or any one might be out-
side." He obeyed. "I really think we had better
go to bed, tf you don't mind. I shall only say
things that will make me unhappy afterwards. As
you say it is all too horrible, and it is no good talk-
ing."

But to Cecil, now that he was about to lose her,
she seemed each moment more desirable. He
looked at her, instead of through her, for the first
time since they were engaged. From a Leonardo
she had become a living woman, with mysteries
and forces of her own, with qualities that even:
eluded art. His brain recovered from the shock,
and, in a burst of genuine devotion, he cried: "But
[ love you, and I did think you loved mel"

"I did not," she said. "I thought I did at first.
I am sorry, and ought to have refused you this
last time, too."

He began to walk up and down the room, and
*he grew more and more vexed at his dignified be-
laviour. She had counted on his being petty. It
vould have made things easier for her. By a cruel '
rony she was drawing out all that was finest in his
lisposition.

"You don't love me, evidently. I dare wj ^cw.
-261-

A Room with a View

are right not to. But it would hurt a little less if
- I knew why."

"Because" — a phrase came to her, and she ac-
cepted it — "you're the sort who can't know any
one intimately."

A horrified look came into his eyes.
"I don't mean exactly that. But you will ques-
tion me, though I beg you not to, and I must say
something. It is that, more or less. When we
were only acquaintances, you let me be myself,
but now you're always protecting me." Her voice
swelled. "I won't be protected. I will choose
for myself what is ladylike and right. To shield
me is an insult. Can't I be trusted to face the
truth but I must get it second-hand through you?
A woman's place 1 You despise my mother — I
' know you do— because she's conventional and
/bothers over puddings; but, oh goodness!" — she
rose to her feet — "conventional, Cecil, you're that,
for you may understand beautiful things, but you
don't know how to use them; and you wrap your-
self up in art and books and music, and would try
to wrap up me. I won't be stifled, not by the most
glorious music, for people are more glorious, and
you hide them from me. That's why I break off
my engagement. You were all right as long as you
kept to things, but when you came to people — "
She stopped.

There was a pause. Then Cecil said with great
emotion :

Lying to Cecil

"It is true."

"True on the whole," she corrected, full of
some vague shame.

"True, every word. It is a revelation. It is
-I."

"Anyhow, those are my reasons for not being
your wife."

He repeated: " 'The sort that can know no one

intimately.' It is true. I fell to pieces the very

first day we were engaged. I behaved like a cad

to Beebe and to your brother. You are even

greater than I thought." She withdrew a step.

I'm not going to worry you. You are far too

5| good to me. I shall never forget your insight ;

"J and, dear, I only blame you for this : you might

I have warned me in the early stages, before you

I felt you wouldn't marry me, and so have given

me a chance to improve. I have never known

you till this evening. I have just used you as a

peg for my silly notions of what a woman should

be. But this evening you are a different person:

new thoughts — even a new voice — "

"What do you mean by a new voice?" she asked,
seized with incontrollable anger.

"I mean that a new person seems speaking
through you," said he.

Then she lost her balance. She cried: "If you
think I am in love with some one else, you are very
much mistaken."

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A Room with a View

"Of course I don't think that. You are not that
kind, Lucy."

"Oh, yes, you do think it. It's your old idea,
the idea that has kept Europe back— I mean the
idea that women are always thinking of men. If
a girl breaks off her engagement, every one says:
'Oh, she had some one else in her mind; she hopes
to get some one else.' It's disgusting, brutal 1 As
if a girl can't break it off for the sake of freedom."

He answered reverently: "I may have said that
in the past. I shall never say it again. You have
taught me better."

She began to redden, and pretended to examine
the windows again.

. "Of course, there is no question of 'some one
else' in this, no 'jilting' or any such nauseous stupid-
ity. I beg your pardon most humbly if my words
suggested that there was. I only meant that there
was a force in you that I hadn't known of up till
now."

"All right, Cecil, that will do. Don't apologize
to me. It was my mistake."

"It is a question between ideals, yours and mine
— pure abstract ideals, and yours are the nobler.
I was bound up in the old vicious notions, and all
the time you were splendid and new." His voice
broke. "I must actually thank you for what you
have done — for showing me what I really am. Sol-
emnly, I thank you for showing me a true woman.
Will you shake hands?"

Lying to Cecil

"Of course I will," said Lucy, twisting up her
other hand in the curtains. "Good-night, Cecil.
Good-bye. That's all right. I'm sorry about it.
Thank you very much for your gentleness."

"Let me light your candle, shall I?"

They went Into the hall.

"Thank you. Good-night again. God bles*
you, Lucy!"

"Good-bye, Cecil."

She watched him steal up-stairs, while the shad-
ows from the banisters passed over her face like
the beat of wings. On the landing he paused strong
in his renunciation, and gave her a look of mem-
orable beauty. For all his culture, Cecil was
ascetic at heart, and nothing in his love became
him like the leaving of it.

She could never marry. In the tumult of her
soul, that stood firm. Cecil believed in her; she
must some day believe in herself. She must be
one of the women whom she had praised so elo-
quently, who care for liberty and not for men; she
must forget that George loved her, that George
had been thinking through her and gained her this
honourable release, that George had gone away
into — what was it? — the darkness.

She put out the lamp.

It did not do to think, nor, for the matter of
that to feel. She gave up. trying to understand
herself, and joined the vast armies of the benighted,
who follow neither the heart nor the brain, and
-265-

A Room with a View

j march to their destiny by catch-words. The am
■ - are full of pleasant and pious folk. But they h
j ' yielded to the only enemy that matters — the enc
I i within. They have sinned against passion i
' truth, and vain will be their strife after virtue,
the years pass, they are censured. Their pie
antry and their piety show cracks, their wit
comes cynicism, their unselfishness hypocrisy; tl
feel and produce discomfort wherever they j
They have sinned against Eros and against Pal
Athene, and not by any heavenly intervention, 1
by the ordinary course of nature, those allied deit
will be avenged.

! Lucy entered this army when she pretended
j George that she did not love him, and pretend
j to Cecil that she loved no one. The night
ccived her, as it had received Miss Bartlett thii
i -1 years before.

Chapter XVIII: Lying to Mr. Beebe,
Mrs. Honeychurch, Freddy, and the
Servants

\T 7 INDY CORNER lay, not on the sum-
%/%/ mit of the ridge, but a few hundred feet

▼ V down the southern slope, at the springing
of one of the great buttresses that supported the
hill. On either side of it was a shallow
filled with ferns and pine-trees, and down the ravine
on the left ran the highway into the Weald.

Whenever Mr. Beebe crossed the ridge and
caught sight of these noble dispositions of the earth,
and, poised in the middle of them, Windy Corner,
— he laughed. The situation was so glorious, the
house so commonplace, not to say impertinent.
The late Mr. Honeychurch had affected the cube,
because it gave him the most accommodation for
his money, and the only addition made by his widow
had been a small turret, shaped like a rhinoceros'
horn, where she could sit in wet weather and watch
the carts going up and down the road. So Imper-
tinent — and yet the house "did," for it was the^
home of people who loved their surroundings hon-
estly. Other houses in the neighborhood had been
built by expensive architects, over others their in-
mates had fidgeted sedulously, yet all these sug-
gested the accidental, the temporary; while Windy
-267-

/.

A Room with a View

Corner seemed as inevitable as an ugliness of
Nature's own creation. One might laugh at the
house, but one never shuddered.

Mr. Beebe was bicycling over this Monday after-
noon with a piece of gossip. He had heard from
the Miss Alans. These admirable ladies, since
they could not go to Cissie Villa, had changed their
plans. They were going to Greece instead.

"Since Florence did my poor sister so much
good," wrote Miss Catharine, "we do not see why
we should not try Athens this winter. Of course,
Athens is a plunge, and the doctor has ordered
her special digestive bread; but, after all, we can
take that with us, and it is only getting first into
a steamer and then into a train. But is there an
English Church?" And the letter went on to say:
"I do not expect we shall go any further than
Athens, but if you knew of a really comfortable
pension at Constantinople, we should be so grate-
ful."

Lucy would enjoy this letter, and the smile
with which Mr. Beebe greeted Windy Corner was
partly for her. She would see the fun of it, and
some of its beauty, for she must see some beauty.
Though she was hopeless about pictures, and though
she dressed so unevenly— oh, that cerise frock yes-
terday at church I — she must see some beauty in
life, or she could not play the piano as she did.
He had a theory that musicians are incredibly com-
plex, and know far less than other artists what
-a68-

Lying to Mr. Beebe

they want and what they are; that they puzzle
themselves as well as their friends; that their
psychology is a modern development, and has not
yet been understood. This theory, had he known
it, had possibly just been illustrated by facts. Ig-
norant of the events of yesterday he was only riding
over to get some tea, to see his niece, and to observe
whether Miss Honeychurch saw anything beautiful
in the desire of two old ladies to visit Athens.

A carriage was drawn up outside Windy Corner,
and just as he caught sight of the house it started,
bowled up the drive, and stopped abruptly when
it reached the main road. Therefore it must be
the horse, who always expected people to walk up
the hill in case they tired him. The door opened
obediently, and two men emerged, whom Mr. Beebe
recognized as Cecil and Freddy. They were an
odd couple to go driving; but he saw a trunk be-
side the coachman's legs. Cecil, who wore a bowler,
must be going away, while Freddy — (a cap) —
seeing him to the station. They walked rapidly,
taking the short cuts, and reached the summit while
the carriage was still pursuing the windings of the
road.

They shook hands with the clergyman, but did
not speak.

"So you're off for a minute, Mr. Vyse?" he
asked.

Cecil said, "Yes," while Freddy edged away.

Kas coming to show you this delightful letter
-269-

A Room with a View

from those friends of Miss Honeychurch's." He j.
quoted from it. "Isn't it wonderful? Isn't it [_
romance ? most certainly they will go to Constanti* p
nople. They are taken in a snare that cannot fail V
They will end by going round the world." i

Cecil listened civilly, and said he was sure that ;
Lucy would be amused and interested.

"Isn't Romance capricious I I never notice it in
you young people; you do nothing but play lawn
tennis, and say that romance is dead, while the Miss
Alans arc struggling with all the weapons of propri-
ety against the terrible thing. 'A really comfort-
able pension at Constantinople 1' So they call it out
of decency, but in their hearts they want a pension
with magic windows opening on the foam of perilous
seas in fairyland forlorn I No ordinary view will
content the Miss Alans. They want the Pension
Keats."

"I'm awfully sorry to interrupt, Mr. Beebe,"
said Freddy, "but have you any matches?"

"I have," said Cecil, and it did not escape Mr.
Beebe's notice that he spoke to the boy more kindly.

"You have never met these Miss Alans, have you,
Mr. Vyse?"

"Never."

"Then you don't see the wonder of this Greek
visit. I haven't been to Greece myself, and don't
mean to go, and I can't imagine any of my friends
going. It is altogether too big for our little lot.
Don't you think so ? Italy is just about as much as

-3.-JO-

Lying to Mr. Beebe

we can manage. Italy is heroic, but Greece is god-
like or devilish — I am not sure which, and in either
case absolutely out of our suburban focus. All
right, Freddy — I am not being clever, upon my word
I am not — I took the idea from another fellow;
and give me those matches when you've done with
them." He lit a cigarette, and went on talking to
the two young men. "I was saying, if our poor
little Cockney lives must have a background, let it be
Italian. Big enough in all conscience. The ceiling
of the Sistine Chapel for me. There the contrast is
just as much as I can realize. But not the Parthe-
non, not the frieze of Phidias at any price; and here
comes the victoria."

"You're quite right," said Cecil. "Greece is
not for our little lot"; and he got in. Freddy fol-
lowed, nodding to the clergyman, whom he trusted
not to be pulling one's leg, really. And before they
had gone a dozen yards he jumped out, and came
running back for Vyse's match-box, which had not
been returned. As he took it, he said: "I'm so
glad you only talked about books. Cecil's hard hit.
Lucy won't marry him. If you'd gone on about her,
as you did about them, he might have broken
down."

"But when — "

"Late last night. I must go."

"Perhaps they won't want me down there."

"No — go on. Good-bye."

«ank goodness!" exclaimed Mr. Beebe to him-
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A Room with a View

self, and struck the saddle of his bicycle approvingly.
"It was the one foolish thing she ever did- Oh,
' what a glorious riddance I" And, after a little
thought, he negotiated the slope into Windy Corner,
light of heart. The house was again as it ought
to be — cut off for ever from Cecil's pretentious
■ world.

He would find Miss Minnie down in the garden.

In the drawing-room Lucy was tinkling at a
Mozart Sonata. He hesitated a moment, but went
down the garden as requested. There he found a
mournful company. It was a blustering day, and
the wind had taken and broken the dahlias. Mrs.
Honeychurch, who looked cross, was tying them up,
while Miss Bartlett, unsuitably dressed, impeded her
with offers of assistance. At a little distance stood
Minnie and the "garden-child," a minute importa-
tion, each holding either end of a long piece of bass.

"Oh, how do you do, Mr. Beebe? Gracious
what a mess everything is! Look at my scarlet
pompons, and the wind blowing your skirts about,
and the ground so hard that not a prop will stick in,
and then the carriage having to go out, when I had
counted on having Powell, who — give every one
their due — does tic up dahlias properly."

Evidently Mrs. Honeychurch was shattered.

"How do you do?" said Miss Bartlett, with a
meaning glance, as though conveying that more
than dahlias had been broken off by the autumn
gales.

-V\1r-

_

Lying to Mr. Beebe

"Here, Lennie, the bass," cried Mrs. Honey-
church. The garden-child, who did not know what
bass was, stood rooted to the path with horror.
Minnie slipped to her uncle and whispered that every
one was very disagreeable to-day, and that it was
not her fault if dahlia-strings would tear longways
instead of across.

"Come for a walk with me," he told her. "You
have worried them as much as they can stand. Mrs.
Honeychurch, I only called in aimlessly. I shall
take her up to tea at the Beehive Tavern, if I
may."

"Oh, must you? Yes do. — Not the scissors,
thank you, Charlotte, when both my hands are full
already — I'm perfectly certain that the orange
cactus will go before I can get to it."

Mr. Beebe, who was an adept at relieving situ-
ations, invited Miss Bartlett to accompany them to
this mild festivity.

"Yes, Charlotte, I don't want you — do go; there's
nothing to stop about for, either in the house or out
of it."

Miss Bartlett said that her duty lay in the dahlia-
bed, but when she had exasperated every one, except
Minnie, by a refusal, she turned round and exasper-
ated Minnie by an acceptance. As they walked up
the garden, the orange cactus fell, and Mr. Beebe's
last vision was of the garden-child clasping it like
a lover, his dark head buried in a wealth of bios'

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A Room with a View

"It is terrible, this havoc among the flowers," h
remarked.

"It is always terrible when the promise of month:
is destroyed in a moment," enunciated Miss Bartlett

"Perhaps we ought to send Miss Honeychurct
down to her mother. Or will she come with us?'

"I think we had better leave Lucy to herself, anc
to her own pursuits."

"They're angry with Miss Honeychurch becaus«
she was late for breakfast," whispered Minnie
"and Floyd has gone, and Mr. Vyse has gone, ant
Freddy won't play with me. In fact, Uncle Arthur
the house is not at all what it was yesterday."

"Don't be a prig," said her Uncle Arthur. "G<
and put on your boots." ,

He stepped into the drawing-room, where Luc]
was still attentively pursuing the Sonatas of Mozart
She stopped when he entered.

"How do you do? Miss Bartlett and Minnii
are coming with me to tea at the Beehive. Woult
you come too?"

"I don't think I will, thank you."

"No, I didn't suppose you would care to much.'

Lucy turned to the piano and struck a few chords

"How delicate those Sonatas are!" said Mr
Beebe, though at the bottom of his heart, he though
them silly little things.

Lucy passed into Schumann.

"Miss Honeychurch!"

"Yes."

Lying to Mr. Beebe

I met them on the hill. Your brother told me."
Oh he did ?" She sounded annoyed. Mr.
eebe felt hurt, for he had thought that she would
ike him to be told.

"I needn't say that it will go no further."

"Mother, Charlotte, Cecil, Freddy, you," said
Lucy, playing a note for each person who knew, and
then playing a sixth note.

"If you'll let me say so, I am very glad, and I
am certain that you have done the right thing."

"So 1 hoped other people would think, but they
don't seem to."

"I could see that Miss Bartlett thought it unwise."

"So does mother. Mother minds dreadfully."

"I am very sorry for that," said Mr. Beebe with
feeling.

Mrs. Honeychurch, who hated all changes, did
mind, but not nearly as much as her daughter pre-
tended, and only for the minute. It was really a
ruse of Lucy's to justify her despondency — a ruse
of which she was not herself conscious, for she
was marching in the armies of darkness.

"And Freddy minds."

"Still, Freddy never hit it off with Vyse much,
did he? I gathered that he disliked the engage-
ment, and felt it might separate him from you."

"Boys are so odd."

Minnie could be heard arguing with Miss Bart-
lett through the floor. Tea at the Beehive appar-
ently involved a complete change of apparel. Mr.
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A Room with a View

Beebe saw that Lucy — very properly — did not wish
to discuss her action, so after a sincere expression
of sympathy, he said, "I have had an absurd letter
from Miss Alan. That was really what brought me
over. I thought it might amuse you all."

"How delightful 1" said Lucy, in a dull voice.

For the sake of something to do, he began to
read her the letter. After a few words her eyes
grew alert, and soon she interrupted him with—
"Going abroad? When do they start?"

"Next week, I gather."

"Did Freddy say whether he was driving straight
back?"

"No, he didn't."

"Because I do hope he won't go gossiping."

So she did want to talk about her broken engage-
ment. Always complaisant, he put the letter away.
But she at once exclaimed in a high voice, "Oh, do
tell me more about the Miss Alans I How perfectly
splendid of them to go abroad I"

"I want them to start from Venice, and go in a
cargo steamer down the Illyrian coast I"

She laughed heartily. "Oh, delightful 1 I wish
they'd take me."

"Has Italy filled you with the fever of travel?
Perhaps George Emerson is right. He says that
I 'Italy is only an euphuism for Fate.' "

"Oh, not Italy, but Constantinople. I have al-
ways longed to go to Constantinople. Constanti-
nople is practically Asia, isn't it?"

Lying to Mr. Beebe

Mr. Beebe reminded her that Constantinople was
ill unlikely, and that the Miss Alans only aimed at

thens, "with Delphi, perhaps, if the roads are
ife." But this made no difference to her enthusi-
sm. She had always longed to go to Greece even
ore, it seemed. He saw, to his surprise, that she
as apparently serious.

"I didn't realize that you and the Miss Alans
ere still such friends, after Cissie Villa."

"Oh, that's nothing; I assure you Cissie Villa's
ithing to me; I would give anything to go with
iem."

"Would your mother spare you again so soon?
ou have scarcely been home three months."

"She must spare me!" cried Lucy, in growing ex-
tement. "I simply must go away. I have to."
le ran her fingers hysterically through her hair.
Don't you see that I have to go away? I didn't
ralize at the time — and of course I want to see Con-
:antinople so particularly."

"You mean that since you have broken off your
igagement you feel — "

"Yes, yes. I knew you'd understand."

Mr. Beebe did not quite understand. Why
juld not Miss Honeychurch repose in the bosom of
er family ? Cecil had evidently taken up the dig-
ified line, and was not going to annoy her. Then

struck him that her family itself might be annoy-
ig. He hinted this to her, and she accepted the
:nt eagerly.

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A Room with a View

"Yes, of course; to go to Constantinople until
they are used to the idea and everything has calmed
down."

"I am afraid it has been a bothersome business,"
he said gently.

"No, not at all. Cecil was very kind indeed;
only — I had better tell you the whole truth, since
you have heard a little — it was that he is so master-
ful. I found that he wouldn't let me go my own
way. He would improve me in places where I can't
be improved.. Cecil won't let a woman decide for
herself — in fact, he daren't. What nonsense 1
talk! but that is the kind of thing."

"It is what I gathered from my own observation
of Mr. Vyse; it is what I gather from all that I have
known of you. I do sympathize and agree most
profoundly. I agree so much that you must let me
make one little criticism : Is it worth while rush-
ing off to Greece?"

"But I must go somewhere!" she cried. "I have
been worrying all the morning, and here comes the
very thing." She struck her knees with clenched
fists, and repeated: "I must! And the time 1
shall have with mother, and all the money she spent
on me last spring. You all think much too highly
of me. I wish you weren't so kind." At this mo-
ment Miss Bartlett entered, and her nervousness in-
. creased. "I must get away, ever so far. I must
know my own mind and where I want to go."

"Come along - , tea, tea., tea " said Mr. Beebe, and

Lying to Mr. Beebe

ustled his guests out of the front-door. He hus-
<ed them so quickly that he forgot his hat. When
e returned for it he heard, to his relief and sur-
<rise, the tinkling of a Mozart Sonata.

"She is playing again," he said to Miss Bartlett.

"Lucy can always play," was the acid reply.

"One is very thankful that she has such a resource,
■he is evidently much worried, as, of course, she
night to be. I know all about it. The marriage
ras so near that it must have been a hard struggle
efore she could wind herself up to speak."

Miss Bartlett gave a kind of wriggle, and he pre-
'ared for a discussion. He had never fathomed
diss Bartlett. As he had put it to himself at Flor--
nce, "she might yet reveal depths of strangeness,
': not of meaning." But she was so unsympathetic
iat she must be reliable. He assumed that much,
nd he had no hesitation in discussing Lucy with her.
lirinie was fortunately collecting ferns.

She opened the discussion with : "We had much
:tter let the matter drop."

"I wonder."

"It is of the highest importance that there should
: no gossip in Summer Street. It would be death
■ gossip about Mr. Vyse's dismissal at the present
oment."

Mr. Beebe rased his eyebrows. Death is a strong
[>rd — surely too strong. There was no question

tragedy. He said: "Of course, Miss Honey-
urch will make the fact public in her own w
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A Room with a View

when she chooses. Freddy only told me becau
he knew she would not mind."

"I know," said Miss Bartlett civilly. "Yi
Freddy ought not to have told even you. Oi
cannot be too careful."

"Quite so."

"I do implore absolute secrecy. A chance woe
to a chattering friend, and — *'

"Exactly." He was used to these nervous ol
maids and to the exaggerated importance that the
attach to words. A rector lives in a web of pett
secrets, and confidences and warnings, and the wise
he is the less he will regard them. He will chang
the subject, as did Mr. Beebe, saying cheerfully
"Have you heard from any Bertolini people lately
■ I believe you keep up with Miss Lavish. It is odi
how we of that pension, who seemed such a fortuij
tous collection, have been working into one another'!
lives. Two, three, four, six of us — no, eight; %
had forgotten the Emersons — have kept more or
less in touch. We must really give the Signora i
testimonial."

And, Miss Bartlett not favouring the scheme,
they walked up the hill in a silence which was only
broken by the rector naming some fern. On the
summit they paused. The sky had grown wilder
since he stood there last hour, giving to the land a
tragic greatness that is rare in Surrey. Grey clouds
were charging across tissues of white, which
stretched and shredded and tore slowly, until
-280-

Lying to Mr. Beebe

disappearing blue. Summer was retreating. The
Wind roared, the trees groaned, yet the noise seemed
nsufficient for those vast operations in heaven,
he weather was breaking up, breaking, broken, and
is a sense of the fit rather than of the supernatural
lat equips such crises with the salvos of angelic
rtillery. Mr. Beebe's eyes rested on Windy Cor-
cr, where Lucy sat, practising Mozart. No smile
came to his lips, and, changing the subject again,
le said: "We shan't have rain, but we shall have
arkness, so let us hurry on. The darkness last
ight was appalling."
They reached the Beehive Tavern at about five
'clock. That amiable hostelry possesses a veran-
ah, in which the young and the unwise do dearly
ove to sit, while guests of more mature years seek
pleasant sanded room, and have tea at a table
imfortably. Mr. Beebe saw that Miss Bartlett
"would be cold if she sat out, and that Minnie would
e dull if she sat in, so he proposed a division of
forces. They would hand the child her food
through the window. Thus he was incidentally en-
abled to discuss the fortunes of Lucy.

"I have been thinking, Miss Bartlett," he said,
"and, unless you very much object, I would like to
reopen that discussion." She bowed. "Nothing
about the past. I know little and care less about
that; I am absolutely certain that it is to your cous-
n's credit. She has acted loftily and rightly, and it
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A Room with a View

is like her gentle modesty to say that we think ta
highly of her. But the future. Seriously, what di
you think of this Greek plan?" He pulled out tru
letter again. "I don't know whether you over
heard, but she wants to join the Miss Alans in their
mad career. It's all — I can't explain — it's wrong.

Miss Bartlett read the letter in silence, laid '&•
down, seemed to hesitate, and then read it again,

"I can't see the point of St myself."

To his astonishment, she replied: "There I cai
not agree with you. In it I spy Lucy's salvation.

"Really. Now, why?"

"She wanted to leave Windy Corner.'

"I know — but it seems so odd, so unlike her, si
I was going to say — selfish."

"It is natural, surely — after such painful scene:
that she should desire a change."

Here, apparently, was one of those points that'
the male intellect misses. Mr. Beebe exclaimed:
"So she says herself, and since another lady agrees
with her, I must own that I am partially convinced
Perhaps she must have a change. I have no sisters'
or — and I don't understand these things. But why.
need she go as far as Greece?"

"You may well ask that," replied Miss Bartlett,
who was evidently interested, and had almost
dropped her evasive manner. "Why Greece?
{What is it, Minnie dear — jam?) Why not Tun-
bridge Wells? Oh, Mr. Beebe 1 I had a long and
most unsatisfactory interview with dear Lucy this

so—
ies—

Lying to Mr. Beebe

aorning. I cannot help her. I will say no more,
'erhaps I have already said too much. I am not to
fclk. I wanted her to spend six months with me
it Tunbridge Wells, and she refused."
Mr. Beebe poked at a crumb with his knife.
"But my feelings are of no importance. I know
too well that I get on Lucy's nerves. Our tour was
a failure. She wanted to leave Florence, and when
we got to Rome she did not want to be in Rome,
ind all the time I felt that I was spending her
'mother's money- — ."

| "Let us keep to the future, though," interrupted
'Mr. Beebe. "I want your advice."

"Very well," said Charlotte, with a choky abrupt-
ness that was new to him, though familiar to Lucy.
"I for one will help her to go to Greece. Will
you?"

Mr. Beebe considered.

"It is absolutely necessary," she continued, lower-
ing her veil and whispering through it with a passion,
an intensity, that surprised him. "I know — I
know." The darkness was coming on, and he felt
that this odd woman really did know. "She must
lot stop here a moment, and we must keep quiet till
ihe goes. I trust that the servants know nothing,
ifterwards — but I may have said too much already.
Dnly, Lucy and I are helpless against Mrs. Honey-
Jiurch alone. If you help we may succeed. Other-
wise — "

"Otherwise — ?"

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A Room with a View j

"Otherwise," she repeated as if the word helA
finality. *

"Yes, I will help her," said the clergyman, setting
his jaw firm. "Come, let us go back now, and settle
the whole thing up." t

Miss Bartlett burst into florid gratitude. Th£
tavern sign — a beehive trimmed evenly with bees—*:
creaked in the wind outside as she thanked him.''
Mr. Beebe did not quite understand the situation^
but then, he did not desire to understand it, nor tt^
jump to the conclusion of "another man" that woulif
have attracted a grosser mind. He only felt that!
Miss Bartlett knew of some vague influence fromi
which the girl desired to be delivered, and which'
might well be clothed in the fleshly form. Its very
vagueness spurred him into knight-errantry. His
belief in celibacy, so reticent, so carefully concealed
beneath his tolerance and culture, now came to the
surface and expanded like some delicate flower.
"They that marry do well, but they that refrain do
better." So ran his belief, and he never heard that
an engagement was broken off but with a slight
feeling of pleasure. In the case of Lucy, the feeling
was intensified through dislike of Cecil; and he was
willing to go further — to place her out of danger
until she could confirm her resolution of virginity.
The feeling was very subtle and quite undogmatic,
and he never imparted it to any other of the char-
acters in this entanglement. Yet it existed, and it
alone explains his action subsequently, and his influ-

Lying to Mr. Beebe

pice on the action of others. The compact thafhej
made with Miss Bartlett in the tavern, was to help!

pit only Lucy, but religion also. J

, They hurried home through a world of black and
grey. He conversed on indifferent topics : the Em-
trsons' need of a housekeeper; servants; Italian
Krvants; novels about Italy; novels with a purpose;
could literature influence life? Windy Corner
glimmered. In the garden, Mrs. Honeychurch,
now helped by Freddy, still wrestled with the lives
of her flowers.

"It gets too dark," she said hopelesly. "This
comes of putting off. We might have known the
weather would break up soon ; and now Lucy
wants to go to, Greece. I don't know what the
world's coming to."

"Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "go to Greece she
nust. Come up to the house and let's talk it over.
Do you, in the first place, mind her breaking with
VyseT*

"Mr. Beebe, I'm thankful — simply thankful."

"So am I," said Freddy.

"Good, Now come up to the house."

They conferred in the dining-room for half an
tour.

Lucy would never have carried the Greek scheme
done. It was expensive and dramatic — both qual-
ties that her mother loathed. Nor would Char-
otte have succeeded. The honours
ested with Mr. Beebe. By his tact
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A Room with a View

sense, and by his influence as a clergyman — for i :
clergyman who was not a fool influenced Mri i
Honeychurch greatly — he bent her to their purpow a

"I don't see why Greece is necessary," she said :
"but as you do, I suppose it is all right. It mul
be something I can't understand. Lucy 1 Let's td
her. Lucy I"

"She is playing the piano," Mr. Beebe said. H< e
opened the door, and heard the words of a song:

"Look not thou on beauty's charming."
"I didn't know that Miss Honeychurch sang, too."

"Sit thou still when kings are arming,
Taste not when the wine-cup glistens — "

"It's a song that Cecil gave her. How odd girls 11
are I"

"What's that?" called Lucy, stopping short.

"All right, dear,"' said Mrs. Honeychurch kindly.
She went into the drawing-room, and Mr. Beebe '
heard her kiss Lucy and say: "I am sorry I was so
cross about Greece, but it came on the top of the
dahlias."

Rather a hard voice said: "Thank you, mother;
that doesn't matter a bit."

"And you are right, too — Greece will be all right;
you can go if the Miss Alans will have you."

"Oh, splendid! Oh, thank you!"

Mr. Beebe followed. Lucy still sat at the piano
with her hands over the keys. She was glad, but he
had expected greater gladness. Her mother bent

Lying to Mr. Beebe

r er her. Freddy, to whom she had been singing,
reclined on the floor with his head against her, and
unlit pipe between his lips. Oddly enough, the
[roup was beautiful. Mr. Beebe, who loved the
lit of the past, was reminded of a favourite theme,
fee Santa Conversazione, in which people who care
for one another are painted chatting together about
loble things — a theme neither sensual nor sensa- .
lional, and therefore ignored by the art of to-day.
Why should Lucy want either to marry or to travel
fwhen she had such friends at home?

"Taste not when the wine-cup glistens,
Speak not when the people listens,"

she continued.

"Here's Mr. Beebe."

"Mr. Beebe knows my rude ways."

"It's a beautiful song and a wise one," said he.
"Go on."

"It isn't very good," she said listlessly. "I for-
get why — harmony or something."

"I suspected it was unscholarly. It's so beauti-
ful."

"The tune's right enough," said Freddy, "but the
words are rotten. Why throw up the sponge?"

"How stupidly you talk!" said his sister. The
Santa Conversazione was broken up. After all,
there was no reason that Lucy should talk about
Greece or thank him for persuading her mc '"
he said good-bye.

-287-

A Room with a View

Freddy lit his bicycle lamp for him in the porch,
and with his usual felicity of phrase, said: "Thii
has been a day and a half."

"Stop thine ear against the singer — " i

"Wait a minute; she is finishing."

"From the red gold keep thy finger; '

Vacant heart and hand and eye
Easy live and quiet die."

"I love weather like this," said Freddy. .

Mr. Beebe passed into it.

The two main facts were clear. She had be- ;
haved splendidly, and he had helped her. He could,
not expect to master the details of so big a change,
m a girl's life. If here and there he was dissatis-.
fled or puzzled, he must acquiesce; she was choosing,
the better part.

"Vacant heart and hand and eye "

Perhaps the song stated "the better part" rather :
too strongly. He half fancied that the soaring ac- :
companiment — which he did not lose in the shout of '
the gale — really agreed with Freddy, and was gently
criticizing the words that it adorned :

"Vacant heart and hand and eye
Easy live and quiet die."

However, for the fourth time Windy Corner lay
poised below him — now as a beacon in the roaring
tides of darkness.

Chapter XIX: Lying to Mr. Emerson

THE Miss Alans were found in their beloved
temperance hotel near Bloomsbury — a
clean, airless establishment much patron-
ized by provincial England. They always perched
there before crossing the great seas, and for a week
or two would fidget gently over clothes, guide-books,
mackintosh squares, digestive bread, and other Con-
tinental necessaries. That there are shops abroad,
even in Athens, never occurred to them, for they re-
garded travel as a species of warfare, only to be
undertaken by those who have been fully armed at
the Haymarket Stores. Miss Honeychurch, they
trusted, would take care to equip herself duly.
Quinine could now be obtained in tabloids; paper
soap was a great help towards freshening up one's
face in the train. Lucy promised, a little depressed.
"But, of course, you know all about these things,
and you have Mr. Vyse to help you. A gentleman
1 is such a stand-by."

Mrs. Honeychurch, who had come up to town
, with her daughter, began to drum nervously upon
her card-case.

"We think it so good of Mr. Vyse to spare you,"
Miss Catharine continued. "It is not r— ™nig
-289-

A Room with a View

man who would be so unselfish. But perhaps he
will come out and join you later on."

"Or does his work keep him in London?" said.
Miss Teresa, the more acute and less kindly of the -i
two sisters. >

"However, we shall see him when he sees you off. -
I do so long to see him."

"No one will see Lucy off," interposed Mrs. <
Honeychurch. "She doesn't like it."

"No, I hate seeings-off," said Lucy.

"Really? How funny! I should have thought
that in this case — "

"Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch, you aren't going? It ,
is such a pleasure to have met you!"

They escaped, and Lucy said with relief: "That's
all right. We just got through that time."

But her mother was annoyed. "I should be told,
dear, that I am unsympathetic. But I cannot sec
why you didn't tell your friends about Cecil and be
done with it. There all the time we had to
sit fencing, and almost telling lies, and be seen
through, too, I dare say, which is most unpleas-
ant."

Lucy had plenty to say in reply. She described
the Miss Alans' character: they were such gossips,
and if one told them, the news would be everywhere
in no time.

"But why shouldn't it be everywhere in no time?"

"Because I settled with Cecil not to announce it

until I left England. I shall tell them then. It's

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Lying to Mr. Emerson

¥ much pleasanter. How wet it is I Let's turn in

.1 here."

"J "Here" was the British Museum. Mrs. Honey-
church refused. If they must take shelter, let it
be in a shop. Lucy felt contemptuous, for she was
on the tack of caring for Greek sculpture, and had
already borrowed a mythical dictionary from
Mr. Beebe to get up the names of the goddesses
and gods.

"Oh, well, let it be shop, then. Let's go to
Mudie's. I'll buy a guide-book."

"You know, Lucy, you and Charlotte and Mr.
Beebe all tell me I'm so stupid, so I suppose I
am, but I shall never understand this hole-and-
corner work. You've got rid of Cecil — well and
good, and I'm thankful he's gone, though I did
feel angry for the minute. But why not announce
it? Why this hushing up and tip-toeing?"

' "It's only for a few days."

f "But why at all?"

I Lucy was silent. She was drifting away from

! her mother. It was quite easy to say, "Because
George Emerson has been bothering me, and if he
hears I've given up Cecil may begin again" — quite
easy, and it had the incidental advantage of being
true. But she could not say it. She disliked con-
fidences, for they might lead to self-knowledge and '
to that king of terrors — Light. Ever since tha>^'
last evening at Florence she had deemed it unwise
to reveal her soul.

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A Room with a View

Mrs. Honeychurch, too, was silent. She was
thinking, "My daughter won't answer me; she
would rather be with those inquisitive old maids
than with Freddy and me. Any rag, tag, and bob-
tail apparendy does if she can leave her home."
And as in her case thoughts never remained un-
spoken long, she burst out with: "You're tired of
Windy Corner."

This was perfectly true. Lucy had hoped to
return to Windy Corner when she escaped from
Cecil, but she discovered that her home existed
•no longer. It might exist for Freddy, who still
i lived and thought straight, but not for one who
;' had deliberately warped the brain. She did not
' acknowledge that her brain was warped, for the
brain itself must assist in that acknowledgment,
and she was disordering the very instruments of
life. She only felt, "I do not love George; I
broke off my engagement because I did not love
George; I must go to Greece because I do not love
; George; it is more important that I should look up
gods in the dictionary than that I should help my
mother; every one else is behaving very badly."
She only felt irritable and petulant, and anxious
to do what she was not expected to do, and in this
spirit she proceeded with the conversation.

"Oh, mother, what rubbish you talk! Of course
I'm not tired of Windy Corner."

"Then why not say so at once, instead of con-
sidering half an hour?"

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Lying to Mr. Emerson

She laughed faintly, "Half a minute would be
nearer."

"Perhaps you would like to stay away from your
home altogether?"

"Hush, mother! People -will hear you"; for
they had entered Mudie's. She bought Baedeker,
and then continued: "Of course I want to live at
home; but as we are talking about it, I may as
well say that I shall want to be away in the future
more than I have been. You see, I come into my
money next year."

Tears came into her mother's eyes.

Driven by nameless bewilderment, by what is
in older people termed "eccentricity," Lucy deter-
mined to make this point clear. "I've seen the
world so little — I felt so out of things in Italy. I
have seen so little of life; one ought to come up
to London more — not a cheap ticket like to-day,
but to stop. I might even share a flat for a little
| with some other girl."

I "And mess with typewriters and latch-keys," ex-
ploded Mrs. Honeychurch. "And agitate and
scream, and be carried off kicking by the police.
I And call it a Mission — when no one wants you!
I And call it Duty — when it means that you can't
stand your own home 1 And call it Work — when
thousands of men are starving with the compe-
tition as it is I And then to prepare yourself, find
two doddering old ladies, and go abroad with
them."

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A Room with a View

"I want more independence," said Lucy lamely;
she' knew that she wanted something, and inde-
pendence is a useful cry; we can always say that
we have not got it. She tried to remember her
emotions in Florence: those had been sincere and
passionate, and had suggested beauty rather than
short skirts and latch-keys. But independence was
certainly her cue.

"Very well. Take your independence and be
gone. Rush up and down and round the world,
and come back as thin as a lath with the bad
food. Despise the house that your father built
and the garden that he planted, and our dear view
— and then share a flat with another girl."

Lucy screwed up her mouth and said: "Perhaps
I spoke hastily."

"Oh, goodness!" her mother flashed. "How
you do remind me of Charlotte Bartlettl"

"Charlottef" flashed Lucy in her turn, pierced
at last by a vivid pain.

"More every moment."

"I don't know what you mean, mother; Char-
lotte and I are not the very least alike."

"Well, I see the likeness. The same eternal
worrying, the same taking back of words. You
and Charlotte trying to divide two apples among
three people last night might be sisters."

"What rubbish 1 And if you dislike Charlotte
so, it's rather a pity you asked her to stop. I
warned you about her; I begged you, implored

Lying to Mr. Emerson

you not to, but of course it was not listened to."

"There you go."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Charlotte again, my dear; that's all; her very
words."

Lucy clenched her teeth. "My point is that you
oughtn't to have asked Charlotte to stop. I wish
you would keep to the point." And the conver-
sation died off into a wrangle.

She and her mother shopped in silence, spoke
little in the train, little again in the carriage, which
met them at Dorking Station. It had poured all
day and as they ascended through the deep Surrey
lanes showers of water fell from the over-hanging
beech-trees and rattled on the hood. Lucy com-
plained that the hood was stuffy. Leaning for-
ward, she looked out into the steaming dusk, and
watched the carriage-lamp pass like a search-light
I over mud and leaves, and reveal nothing beautiful.
| "The crush when Charlotte gets in will be abomin-
able," she remarked. For they were to pick up
Miss Bartlett at Summer Street, where she had been
dropped as the carriage went down, to pay a call
on Mr, Beebe's old mother. "We shall have to
sit three a side, because the trees drop, and yet it
isn't raining. Oh, for a little air I" Then she
listened to the horse's hoofs — "He has not told —
he has not told." That melody was blurred by the
soft road. "Can't we have the hood down?" she
demanded, and her mother, with sudden tenderness*
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A Room with a View

said: "Very well, old lady, stop the horse." And
the horse was stopped, and Lucy and Powell wres-
tled with the hood, and squirted water down Mrs.
Honeychurch's neck. But now that the hood was
down, she did see something that she would have
missed — there were no lights in the windows of
Cissie Villa, and round the garden gate she fan*
cied she saw a padlock.

"Is that house to let again, Powell?" she called.

"Yes, miss," he replied.

"Have they gone?"

"It is too far out of town for the young gentle-
man, and his father's rheumatism has come on,
so he can't stop on alone, so they are trying to
let furnished," was the answer.

"They have gone, then?"

"Yes, miss, they have gone."

Lucy sank back. The carriage stopped at the
Rectory. She got out to call for Miss Bartlett.
So the Emersons had gone, and all this bother
about Greece had been unnecessary. Waste I
That word seemed to sum up the whole of life.
Wasted plans, wasted money, wasted love, and she
had wounded her mother. Was it possible that
she had muddled things away? Quite possible.
J Other people had. When the maid opened the
door, she was unable to speak, and stared stupidly
into the hall.

Miss Bartlett at once came forward, and after a
Jong preamble asked a great favour: might she go
-296-

Lying to Mr. Emerson

to church? Mr. Beebe and his mother had already
gone, but she had refused to start until she obtained
her hostess's full sanction, for it would mean keep-
ing the horse waiting a good ten minutes more.

"Certainly," said the hostess wearily. "I for-
got it was Friday. Let's all go. Powell can go
round to the stables."

"Lucy dearest — "

"No church for me, thank you."

A sigh, and they departed. The church was
invisible, but up in the darkness to the left there
was a hint of colour. This was a stained window,
through which some feeble light was shining, and
when the door opened Lucy heard Mr. Beebe's
voice running through the litany to a minute con-
gregation. Even their church, built upon the slope
of the hill so artfully, with its beautiful raised
transept and its spire of silvery shingle — even their
I church had lost its charm; and the thing one never i
talked about — religion — was fading like all the j
other things. ^^

She followed the maid into the Rectory.

Would she object to sitting in Mr. Beebe's study?
| There was only that one fire.

She would not object.

Some one was there already, for Lucy heard the
words: "A lady to wait, sir."

Old Mr. Emerson was sitting by the fire, with his
foot upon a gout-stool.

"Oh, Miss Honeychurch, that you sho
| -297-

A Room with a View

he quavered; and Lucy saw an alteration in him
since last Sunday.

Not a word would come to her lips. George
she had faced, and could have faced again, but
she had forgotten how to treat his father.

"Miss Honeychurch, dear, we are so sorry !
George is so sorry I He thought he had a right
to try. I cannot blame my boy, and yet I wish
he had told me first. He ought not to have tried.
I knew nothing about it at all."

If only she could remember how to be-
have!

He held up his hand. "But you must not scold
him."

Lucy turned her back, and began to look at Mr.
Beebe's books.

"I taught him," he quavered, "to trust in love.

(I said: 'When love comes, that is reality.' I said:

J 'Passion does not blind. No. Passion is sanity,

I and the woman you love, she is the only person you

I will ever really understand.' " He sighed: "True,

j everlastingly true, though my day is over, and

l though there is the result. Poor boy! He is so

sorry ! He said he knew it was madness when you

brought your cousin in ; that whatever you felt you

did not mean. Yet" — his voice gathered strength ;

he spoke out to make certain — "Miss Honeychurch,

do you remember Italy?"

Lucy selected ft book — a volume of Old Testa-
ment commentaries. Holding it up to her eyes,

Lying to Mr. Emerson

she said: "I have no wish to discuss Italy or any
subject connected with your son."

"But you do remember it?"

"He has misbehaved himself from the first."

"I only was told that he loved you last Sunday.
I never could judge behaviour. I — I — suppose he
has."

Feeling a little steadier, she put the book back
and turned round to him. His face was drooping
and swollen, but his eyes, though they were sunken
deep, gleamed with a child's courage.

"Why, he has behaved abominably," she said.
"I am glad he is sorry. Do you know what he
did?"

"Not 'abominably,' " was the gentle correction.
"He only tried when he should not have tried.
You have all you want, Miss Honeychurch: you
are going to marry the man you love. Do not go
out of George's life saying he is abominable."

"No, of course," said Lucy, ashamed at the
reference to Cecil. " 'Abominable' is much too
strong. I am sorry I used it about your son. I
think I will go to church, after all. My mother
and my cousin have gone. I shall not be so very
late — "

"Especially as he has gone under," he said quietly.

"What was that?"

"Gone under naturally." He beat his palms
together in silence ; his head fell on his chest.

"I don't understand."

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A Room with a View

"As his mother did."

"But, Mr. Emerson — Mr, Emerson — what are ;
you talking about?"

"When I wouldn't have George baptized," said ■
he.

Lucy was frightened.

"And she agreed that baptism was nothing, but -
he caught that fever when he was twelve and she
turned round. She thought it a judgment." He
shuddered. "Oh, horrible, when we had given up
that sort of thing and broken away from her par-
ents. Oh, horrible — worst of all — worse than
death, when you have made a little clearing in the
wilderness, planted your little garden, let in your
sunlight, and then the weeds creep in again! A
judgment! And our boy had typhoid because no
clergyman had dropped water on him in church!
Is it possible, Miss Honeychurch? Shall we slip
back into the darkness for ever?"

"I don't know," gasped Lucy. "I don't under-
stand this sort of thing. . I was not meant to under-
stand it."

"But Mr. Eager — he came when I was out, and
acted according to his principles. I don't blame
him or any one . . . but by the time George was
well she was ill. He made her think about sin, and
she went under thinking about it."

It was thus that Mr. Emerson had murdered
his wife in the sight of God.
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Lying to Mr. Emerson

"Oh, how terrible 1" said Lucy, forgetting her
own affairs at last.

"He was not baptized," said the old man. "I
did hold firm." And he looked with unwavering
eyes at the rows of books, as if — at what cost! —
he had won a victory over them. "My boy shall \
go back to the earth untouched." -^

She asked whether young Mr. Emerson was ill.

"Oh — last Sunday." He started into the pres-
ent. "George last Sunday — no, not ill: just gone
under. He is never ill. But he is his mother's
son. Her eyes were his, and she had that fore-
head that I think so beautiful, and he will not think
it worth while to live. It was always touch and go.
He will live; but he will not think it worth while to
live. He will never think anything worth while.
You remember that church at Florence?"

Lucy did remember, and how she had suggested
that George should collect postage stamps.

"After you left Florence — horrible. Then we
took the house here, and he goes bathing with your
brother, and became better. You saw him bath-
ing?"

"I am so sorry, but it is no good discussing this
affair. I am deeply sorry about it."

"Then there came something about a novel. I

didn't follow it at all; I had to hear so much, and

he minded telling me; he finds me too old. Ah,

well, one must have failures. George comes down

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A Room with a View

to-morrow, and takes me up to his London rooms.
He can't bear to be about here, and I must be
where he is."

"Mr. Emerson," cried the girl, "don't leave —
at least, not on my account. I am going to Greece.
Don't leave your comfortable house."

It was the first time her voice had been kind and
he smiled. "How good every one is! And look
at Mr, Beebe housing me — came over this morning
and heard I was goingl Here I am so comfortable
with a fire."

"Yes, but you won't go back to London. It's
absurd."

"I must be with George; I must make him care
to live, and down here he can't. He says the
thought of seeing you and of hearing about you —
I am not justifying him: I am only saying what has
happened."

"Oh, Mr. Emerson" — she took hold of his hand
— "you mustn't. I've been bother enough to the
world by now. I can't have you moving out of
your house when you like it, and perhaps losing
money through it — all on my account. You must
stop! I am just going to Greece."

"All the way to Greece?"

Her manner altered.

"To Greece?"

"So you must stop. You won't talk about this
business, I know. I can trust you both."

"Certainly you can. We either have you in our
-301-

Lying to Mr. Emerson

lives, or leave you to the life that you have chosen."

"I shouldn't want — "

"I suppose Mr. Vyse is very angry with George?
No, it was wrong of George to try. We have
pushed our beliefs too far. I fancy that we de-
serve sorrow."

She looked at the books again — black, brown, and
that acrid theological blue. They surrounded the
visitors on every side; they were piled on the tables,
they pressed against the very ceiling. To Lucy — J
who could not see that Mr. Emerson was pro-l
foundly religious, and differed from Mr. Beebel,
chiefly by his acknowledgment of passion — it"
seemed dreadful that the old man should crawl into
such a sanctum, when he was unhappy, and be de-
pendent on the bounty of a clergyman.

More certain than ever that she was tired, he
offered her his chair.

"No, please sit still. I think I will sit in the car-
riage."

"Miss Honeychurch, you do sound tired."

"Not a bit," said Lucy, with trembling lips.

"But you are, and there's a look of George about
you. And what were you saying about going
abroad ?"

She was silent.

"Greece" — and she saw that he was thinking the
word over — "Greece; but you were to be married
this year, I thought."

"Not till January, it wasn't," said Lucy, claspir'
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A Room with a View

her hands. Would she tell an actual lie when it
came to the point?

"I suppose that Mr. Vyse is going with you. I
hope — it isn't because George spoke that you are
both going?"

"No."

"I hope that you will enjoy Greece with Mr.
Vyse."

"Thank you."

At that moment Mr. Beebe came back from
church. His cassock was covered with rain.
"That's all right," he said kindly. "I counted on
you two keeping each other company. It's pouring
again. The entire congregation, which consists of
your cousin, your mother, and my mother, stands
waiting in the church, till the carriage fetches it.
Did Powell go round?"

"I think so; I'll see."

"No— of course, I'll see. How are the Miss
Alans ?"

"Very well, thank you."

"Did you tell Mr. Emerson about Greece?"

"I— I did."

"Don't you think it very plucky of her, Mr. Em-
erson, to undertake the two Miss Alans? Now,
Miss Honeychurch, go back — keep warm. I think
three is such a courageous number to go travelling."
And he hurried off to the stables.

"He is not going," she said hoarsely. "I made
a slip. Mr. Vyse does stop behind in England."

Lying to Mr. Emerson

Somehow it was impossible to cheat this old man. /
To George, to Cecil, she would have lied again; |
but he seemed so near the end of things, so dig-
nified in his approach to the gulf, of which he gave
one account, and the books that surrounded him
another, so mild to the rough paths that he had
traversed, that the true chivalry — not the worn-out
chivalry of sex, but the true chivalry that all the
young may show to all the old — awoke in her, and. "
at whatever risk, she told him that Cecil was not
her companion to Greece. And she spoke so seri-
ously that the risk became a certainty, and he, lift-
ing his eyes, said: "You are leaving him? You are ,
leaving the man you love?" i

"I— I had to."

"Why, Miss Honeychurch, why?"

Terror came over her, and she lied again. She
made the long, convincing speech that she had made
to Mr. Beebe, and intended to make to the world
when she announced that her engagement was no
more. He heard her in silence, and then said:
"My dear, I am worried about you. It seems to
me" — dreamily; she was not alarmed — "that you
are in a . muddle ."

She shook her head.

"Take an old man's word; there's nothing worse \\
than a muddle i n all the world. It is easy to facet .
Death and fate, and the things that sound so dread-/
ful. It is on my muddles that I look back with| '
horror — on the things that I might have avoided
-305-

A Room with a View

We can help one another but little. I used to think
I could teach young people the whole of life, but I
know better now, and all my teaching of George has
come down to this: bewjj a - of m uddle- Do you
remember in that church, when you pretended to be
annoyed with me and weren't? Do you remember
before, when you refused the room with the view?
Those were muddles — little, but ominous — and I
am fearing that you are in one now." She was
silent. "Don't trust me, Miss Honeychurch.
-Though life is very glorious, it is difficult." She
was still silent. " 'Life' wrote a friend of mine,
'is a public performance on the violin, in which you
must learn the instrument as you go along.' I think
he puts it well. Man has to pick up the use of his
functions as he goes along — e speciall y^ foe , fu pction
o f - L ove." Then he burst out excitedly; "That's
it; that's what I mean. You love George 1" And
| after his long preamble, the three words Hurst
.'against Lucy like waves from the open sea.

"But you do," he went on, not waiting for contra-
diction. "You love the boy body and soul, plainly,
directly, as he loves you, and no other word ex-
presses it. You won't marry the other man for his
sake."

"How dare you I" gasped Lucy, with the roaring
of waters in her ears. "Oh, how like a man! — I
mean, to suppose that a woman is always thinking
about a man."

"But you are."

-y>6-

Lying to Mr. Emerson

She summoned physical disgust.
"You're shocked, but I mean to shock you. It's
the only hope at times. I can reach you no other
a way. You must marry, or your life will be wasted,
b You have gone too far to retreat. I have no time
for the tenderness, and the comradeship, and the
poetry, and the things that really matter, and for
I which you marry. I know that, with George, you
will find them, and that you love him. Then be his
wife. He is already part 6f you. Though you fly
Greece, and never see him again, or forget his
very name, George will work in your thoughts till
you die. It isn't possible to love and to part. You
will wish that it was. You can transmute love, ig-
nore it, muddle it, but you can never pull it out of
you. I know by experience that the poets are right ^
love is eternal." A

Lucy began to cry with anger, and though her
anger passed away soon, her tears remained.

I only wish poets would say this, too : love is of
the body; not the body, but of the body. Ah! the
misery that would be saved if we confessed that!
Ah! for a little directness to liberate the soul!
Your soul, dear Lucy! I hate the word now, be-
cause of all the cant with which superstition has
wrapped it round. But we have souls. I cannot
say how they came nor whither they go, but we
have them, and I see you ruining yours. I cannot

I bear it. It is again the darkness creeping in; it is
hell." Then he checked himself. "What nonsense '
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A Room with a View

I have talked — how abstract and remote I And
have made you cry I Dear girl, forgive my prosi
ness; marry my boy. When I think what life is
and how seldom love is answered by love — Marr
him ; it is one of the moments for which the worli
was made."

She could not understand him; the words wcr
indeed remote. Yet as he spoke the darkness wa
withdrawn, veil after veil, and she saw to the bol
torn of her soul.

"Then, Lucy — "

"You've frightened me," she moaned. "Ceci
— Mr. Beebe — the ticket's bought — everything.'
She fell sobbing into the chair. "I'm caught in th
tangle. I must suffer and grow old away from hirr
I cannot break the whole of life for his sake. The
trusted me."

A carriage drew up at the front-door.

"Give George my love — once only. Tell hir
'muddle.' " Then she arranged her veil, while th
tears poured over her cheeks inside.

"Lucy — "

"No — they are in the hall— oh, please not. Mi
Emerson — they trust me — "
! "But why should they, when you have deceivei
. them?"

Mr. Beebe opened the door, saying: "Here 1
my mother."

"You're not worthy of their trust."

"What's that?" said Mr. Beebe sharply.

Lying to Mr. Emerson

"I was saying, why should you trust her when
the deceived you?"

"One minute, mother." He came in and shut
the door.

"I don't follow you, Mr. Emerson. To whom do
you refer ? Trust whom ?"

I mean she has pretended to you that she
did not love George. They have loved one another
all along."

Mr. Beebe looked at the sobbing girl. He was
very quiet, and his white face, with its ruddy whis-
kers, seemed suddenly inhuman. A long black col-
umn, he stood and awaited her reply.
"I shall never marry him," quavered Lucy.
A look of contempt came over him, and he said,
Why not?"
"Mr. Beebe — I have misled you — I have misled
myself — " .

"Oh, rubbish, Miss Honeychurch 1" \

"It is not rubbish I" said the old man hotly.
"It's the part of people that you don't under-
stand."

Mr. Beebe laid his hand on the old man's shoul-
der pleasantly.

"Lucy! Lucy!" called voices from the carriage.
"Mr. Beebe, could you help me?"
He looked amazed at the request, and said in a
low, stern voice: "I am more grieved than I can
possibly express. It is lamentable, lamentable — in-
credible."

-309-

A Room with a View

"What's wrong with the boy?" fired up the other
again.

"Nothing, Mr. Emerson, except that he no longer
interests me. Marry George, Miss Honeychurch.
He will do admirably."

He walked out and left them. They heard him
guiding his mother up-stairs.

"Lucy I" the voices called.
! She turned to Mr. Emerson in despair. But his
face revived her. It was the face of a saint who
understood.

"Now it is all dark. Now Beauty and Passion
seem never to have existed. I know. But re-
member the mountains over Florence and the view.
Ah, dear, if I were George, and gave you one kiss,
it would make you brave. You have to go cold
into a battle that needs warmth, out into the muddle
that you have made yourself; and your mother and
all your friends will despise you, oh, my darling,
and rightly, if it is ever right to despise. George
still dark, all the tussle and the misery without a
word from him. Am I justified?" Into his own
eyes tears came. "Yes, for we fight for more than
Love or Pleasure; there is Truth. Truth counts,
Truth does count."

"You kiss me," said the girl. "You kiss me.
I will try."

He gave her a sense of deities recjmciled, a feel-
ing that, in gaining the man she loved, she would
gain something for the whole world. Throughout

Lying to Mr. Emerson

the squalor of her homeward drive — she spoke at
once — his salutation remained. He had robbed the J
body of its taint, the world's taunts of their sting;
he had shown her the holiness of direct desire. She j 1
"never exactly understood," she would say in after J.J
years, "how he managed to strengthen her. It was/^
as if he had made her see the whole of everything atl/
once."

Chapter XX: The End of the Middle
Ages

THE Miss Alans did go to Greece, but they
went by themselves. They alone of this
little company will double Malea and
plough the waters of the Saronic gulf. They alone
will visit Athens and Delphi, and either shrine of in-
tellectual song — that upon the Acropolis, encircled
by blue seas; that under Parnassus, where the eagles
build and the bronze charioteer drives undismayed
towards infinity. Trembling, anxious, cumbered
with much digestive bread, they did proceed to Con-
stantinople, they did go round the world. The rest
of us must be contented with a fair, but a less ardu-
ous, goal. Itallam petimus : we return to the Pen-
sion Bertolini.

George said it was his old room.

"No, it isn't," said Lucy; "because it is the room
I had, and I had your father's room. I forget why;
Charlotte made me, for some reason."

He knelt on the tiled floor, and laid his face in
her lap.

"George, you baby, get up,"

"Why shouldn't I be a baby?" murmured George.

Unable to answer this question, she put down his

sock, which she was trying to mend, and gazed out

-ill-

The End of the Middle Ages

through the window. It was evening and again the
spring.

'Oh, bother Charlotte," she said thoughtfully.
"What can such people be made of?"
'Same stuff as parsons are made of."
| "Nonsense I"
H "Quite right. It is nonsense."
1 "Now you get up off the cold floor, or you'll be
starting rheumatism next, and you stop laughing
and being so silly."

"Why shouldn't I laugh?" he asked, pinning her
with his elbows, and advancing his face to hers.
"What's there to cry at? Kiss me here." He indi-
cated the spot where a kiss would be welcome.

He was a boy after all. When it came to the
point, it was she who remembered the past, she into
whose soul the iron had entered, she who knew
whose room this had been last year. It endeared
him to her strangely that he should be sometimes
wrong.

"Any letters?" he asked.
"Just a line from Freddy."
"Now kiss me here; then here."
Then, threatened again with rheumatism, he
strolled to the window, opened it (as the English
ill), and leant out. There was the parapet, there
the river, there to the left the beginnings of the
hills. The cab-driver, who at once saluted him
with the hiss of a serpent, might be that very Phae-
thon who had set this happiness in motion twelve
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A Room with a View

months ago. A passion of gratitude — all feelings
grow to passions in the South — came over the hus-
band, and he blessed the people and the things who
had taken so much trouble about a young fool He
had helped himself, it is true, but how stupidly t<
All the fighting that mattered had been done by
others — by Italy, by his father, by his wife.

"Lucy, you come and look at the cypresses; and
the church, whatever its name is, still shows."

"San Miniato. I'll just finish your sock."

"Signorino, domani faremo uno giro," called the
cabman, with engaging certainty.

George told him that he was mistaken ; they had
no money to throw away on driving.

And the people who had not meant to help — the
Miss Lavishes, the Cecils, the Miss Bartlettsl
Ever prone to magnify Fate, George counted up
the forces that had swept him into this content-
ment.

"Anything good in Freddy's letter?"

"Not yet."

His own content was absolute, but hers held bit-
terness: the Honeychurches had not forgiven them;
they were disgusted at her past hypocrisy; she had
alienated Windy Corner, perhaps for ever,

"What does he say?"

"Silly boy! He thinks he's being dignified. He

knew we should go off in the spring — he has known

it for six months — that if mother wouldn't give her

consent we should take the thing into our own hands.

-V-*r

The End of the Middle Ages

They had fair warning, and now he calls it an elope-
ment. Ridiculous boy — "
"Signorino, domani faremo unogiro — "
"But it will all come right in the end. He has to
build us both up from the beginning again. I wish,
though, that Cecil had not turned so cynical about
women. He has, for the second time, quite altered.
Why will men have theories about women? T
laven't any about men. I wish, too, that Mr.
Beebe— "
"You may well wish that."

"He will never forgive us — I mean, he will never
be interested in us again. I wish that he did not
influence them so much at Windy Corner. I wish
he hadn't — But if we act the truth, the people who "
really love us are sure to come back to us in the long-
run."

"Perhaps." Then he said more gently: "Well,
I acted the truth — the only thing I did do — and you
came back to me. So possibly you know." He
turned back into the room. "Nonsense with that
sock." He carried her to the window, so that she,
too, saw all the view. They sank upon their knees,
invisible from the road, they hoped, and began to
whisper one another's names. Ahl it was worth
while; it was the great joy that they had expected,
and countless little joys of which they had never
dreamt. They were silent.
"Signorino, domani faremo — "
"Oh, bother that man!"
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A Room with a View

But Lucy remembered the vendor of photographs
and said, "No, don't be rude to him." Then with
a catching of her breath, she murmured: "Mr.
Eager and Charlotte, dreadful frozen Charlotte I
How cruel she would be to a man like that!"

"Look at the lights going over the bridge."

"But this room reminds me of Charlotte. How
horrible to grow old in Charlotte's way I To think
that evening at the rectory that she shouldn't have
heard your father was in the house. For she would
have stopped me going in, and he was the only per-
son alive who could have made me see sense. You
| couldn't have made me. When I am very happy"
— she kissed him — "I remember on how little it alL
hangs. If Charlotte had only known, she would
have stopped me going in, and I should have gone
to silly Greece, and become different for ever."

"But she did know," said George; "she did see
my father, surely. He said so."

"Oh, no, she didn't see him. She was upstairs
with old Mrs. Beebe, don't you remember, and then
went straight to the church. She said so."

George was obstinate again. "My father," said
he, "saw her, and I prefer his word. He was doz-
ing by the study fire, and he opened his eyes, and
there was Miss Bartlett. A few minutes before
you came in. She was turning to go as he woke up.
He didn't speak to her."

Then they spoke of other things — -the desultory
talk of those who have been fighting to reach one
-316-

The End of the Middle Ages

another, and whose reward is to rest quietly in each
other's arms. It was long ere they returned to
Miss Bartlett, but when they did her behaviour
seemed more interesting. George, who disliked any
darkness, said : "It's clear that she knew. Then,
why did she risk the meeting? She knew he was
there, and yet she went to church."

They tried to piece the thing together.

As they talked, an incredible solution came into
Lucy's mind. She rejected it, and said: "How
like Charlotte to undo her work by a feeble muddle
at the last moment." But something in the dying
evening, in the roar of the river, in their very em-
brace warned them that her words fell short of life,
and George whispered: "Or did she mean it?"

"Mean what?"

"Signorino, domani faremo uno giro — ■"

Lucy bent forward and said with gentleness :
"Lascia, prego, lascia. Stamo sposati."

"Scusi tanto, signora," he replied in tones as
gentle and whipped up his horse.

"Buona sera — e grazie."

"Niente."

The cabman drove away singing.

"Mean what, George?"

He whispered: "Is it this? Is this possible?
I'll put a marvel to you. That your cousin has al-
ways- hoped. That from the very first moment we
net, she hoped, far down in her mind, that we should
be like this — of course, very far down. That *b*
-317-

A Room with a View

fought us on the surface, and yet she hoped. I can't
explain her any other way. Can you? Look ho^
she kept me alive in you all the summer; how slid
gave you no peace ; how month after month she be*
came more eccentric and unreliable. The sight ol
us haunted her — or she couldn't have described ui
as she did to her friend. There are details — it

I burnt. I read the book afterwards. She is nol
frozen, Lucy, she is not withered up all through.
She tore us apart twice, but in the rectory that even-
ing she was given one more chance to make us
happy. We can never make friends with her or
thank her. But I do believe that, far down in her
heart, far below all speech and behaviour, she
' is glad."

"It is impossible," murmured Lucy, and then, re-
membering the experiences of her own heart, she
said: "No — it is just possible."
j Youth enwrapped them; the song of Phaethon an-
| nounced^ passion requited, love attained.^* But they
were conscious of a love more mysterious than this.
The song died away; they heard the river, bearing*
down the snows of winter into the Mediterranean.

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